Star Wars: The Amaranthine Wrath
by Kyndred.Raven
Summary: [CH 10 posted!] [Quinn/F!War] You know the story of the Wrath. Or you think you do. You probably think I'm a hero. The reality is much darker. I offer you the truth now. I saved the Empire, but I lost much along the way. I conquered, I failed, and I loved. In the end, my Empire betrayed me. My tale isn't over. This is only the beginning...
1. ACT I: Chapter 1

**DISCLAIMER: (It's required)**

SWTOR belongs to EA and Bioware. This story is being written entirely free of profit except for the feels and personal happiness that I gain. All SWTOR cannon characters belong to Bioware and EA. All original characters and character concepts belong to me in my headcannon (and in my dreams).

**WARNINGS: (They're required,too)**

**[SPOILERS]:** Though this will have a very different main plot than the original, there will still be some similarities. As such, please be aware of spoilers ahead.

**[RATING]:** This story is rated heavy T for a reason. I am considering changing the rating to M. It contains darker themes that may not be appropriate for all ages.

To keep this rating in tandem with rules of FFnet, some material may be cut out of the story posted here. The full version of the story can be found on Archive of Our Own and DeviantArt under my profile "Kyndred_Raven" under the same title. When this happens, I will post a notice at the beginning of the chapter.

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**SO, WHAT IS THIS?**

This is **not** a novelization or retelling of the typical cannon Sith Warrior story. It's a totally different animal.

A few of the Companion storylines (primarily Quinn's, Vette's, and Jaesa's) have been extensively altered while still keeping them in character. Baras's storyline is greatly altered as well. It's a complete re-imagining.

The path that this story will take greatly diverges from its cannon version, ending especially, and will converge with a few of the other class storylines, especially that of the Imperial Agent.

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**UPDATE 5/25/2016**

**This story is currently being perfected, remastered, and continued.**

I wrote this sort of note several months back, but everything in it still applies.

It's been a long time since my last update, and my writing has grown quite a bit since then. Thus, I am editing this story and adding new content between chapters, especially towards the end. I've already edited and reported the first seven chapters over the past two days. For those who have read this story in the past, it will change direction from what you remember, so it may be worth it to re-read what you can.

Reviews help inspire and encourage me. If you have a moment (even if it's just to let me know that you guys are still reading and following this), please drop me a line.

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**STAR WARS:**

**The Amaranthine Wrath**

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**A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...**

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**The year is 10 ATC (After the Treat of Coruscant). **

**The Sith Empire tightens its grip on the galaxy. The Galactic Republic and its Jedi defenders lie weakened and vulnerable after the Empire's successful military campaign. With a fragile peace negotiated, the Empire sends all potential Sith to undergo cruel and deadly trials at its Academy on the harsh planet Korriban. Few survive these trials, but those who do are made stronger by them. **

**Nearly two months ago, a promising young warrior was summoned from Ziost by an influential Overseer to face the Dark Side trials much sooner than expected. Though this should be an honor, the Overseer's actions have caused a ripple in the politics of the Academy. The presence of this new arrival is cloaked in mystery and rumor. Though she quickly earns a reputation as a strong fighter with an unmatched affinity to the Dark Side of the Force, the perceived favor that the Overseer shows her creates a sea of enemies that she must overcome if she is to survive the rigorous life of a Korriban Acolyte to become a true Sith.**

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**ACT I:**

**Chapter 1**

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The man sitting in the cage farthest from the door scares me. The emotion is foreign. I've fought numerous beasts – hideous and deadly – in my months here on Korriban from the lowest slimy K'lor slugs to bloodthirsty Shyraks without any trace of hesitation. This is just a man – an Imperial, by the looks of his uniform - yet he still unsettles me.

His shoulders are hunched, his body bloodied from torture. No doubt the Inquisitors in the Academy had their fun before they brought him here. He looks defeated and downtrodden in every way. Except his eyes. They burn with blue fire - an intensity of emotion so powerful that it stirs the Force around me and makes me feel as though I've swallowed acid.

"Where would you like to start, My Lord?" the jailer asks me. Fortunately, I've mastered the art of molding my features into a mask of indifference. He hasn't noticed my brief moment of weakness. Yet. Forcing myself to tear my gaze away from the third prisoner, I glance at the other two and choose to begin my trial on the opposite side of the room to give myself time to rebuild my defenses. I am Sith. There is no room in my heart for hesitation. The slightest chink in my armor and conviction means my death. I feel the jailer's eyes on my back. Though he acts subservient and respectful, I know better than to let down my guard around him.

What he doesn't know could save my life. In the Academy, much hinges on secrecy. In my case, secrecy is the only defense I have. Why was I brought over from Ziost months ahead of schedule? Why is Tremel arranging for all of my trials to take place on Korriban? Why is my Overseer hauling in prisoners from off-world so that I may judge them within Academy walls? The majority of the people around me would kill to know. But, the answer isn't as simple as many believe. I am not anybody's darling, nor an Academy favorite. I am simply different, as is my unique connection to the Force.

_Focus…_

I make my way to the first cage and listen to the prisoner's story – to his lies. He is accused of a serious crime against the Empire, yet he continues to proclaim his innocence despite extensive torture. As he babbles, rants, and begs for mercy, I find myself glancing towards the third cage again. Towards the blue eyes that I recognize from my dreams. The prisoner's words fade into a blur of dialogue as that intense color traps and ensnares my attention.

_Focus – _my logic warns again. _This is your trial. You cannot afford any mistakes. _The jailer tells me more about the alien's transgressions. His eyes don't miss a thing; his gaze jumps between me and the third cage. Not good. Did he notice my distraction? To regain control, I latch onto my favorite emotion.

Anger.

"Please…surely you can see that I have been set up. I am not guilty of – " The prisoner's words disappear in a symphony of gurgling and gasping as I raise my hand. I channel my anger into my fist – my frustration with the blue-eyed prisoner who dares to distract me, my fury with those who have made my life a living nightmare here, and my hatred for wretches like this criminal who are only fit to lick my boots. I let my passion be my strength.

I feel the Force tremble at my fingertips, feel the life slipping away from the alien that is now floating in the air. His nails try to pry invisible hands loose from his throat one last time before I release the pressure there. He collapses in a heap, heaving and gulping in air. My expression does not change even as he vomits all over the floor of his cage.

"Your verdict, My Lord?" the jailer coughs, his tone subdued. No doubt the maggot will report everything that transpires here today to Vemrin and those who pull his strings. I have no illusions about my position here and how tenuous it is. Nobody is on my side. Not even my supposed mentor, Overseer Tremel.

"Send him back to the Inquisitors. Torture him enough and he _will_ confess," I decree, moving on to the next cell without a second glance at the first. Filthy alien scum. At the next cage, I meet a failed soldier. He confesses to his mistakes and begs for trial by combat rather than execution. I consider this for a moment. "Your failure has cost thousands of lives. Nothing you do now can possibly redeem such complete incompetence."

"This man served a long time. Maybe he does deserve some consideration for that..." the jailer volunteers. My anger, which had briefly lowered to a simmer, now boils over again. First, I deal with the prisoner. A quick death. My saber in his gut. Then, I turn to the jailer and raise my hand. He flinches, understanding my silent message. Nobody questions a Sith. Though I am not officially one yet, I have enough power and authority to silence anyone that tries to cross me this way.

"Forgive me, My Lord," he sputters, his skin taking on a greenish hue. I pause just long enough to let my silent threat sink in. When I'm confident that he won't dare to interrupt me again, I brush past him and move on to the last prisoner. Face still set into a mask of stone, I steady myself and turn towards the third cell. The blue-eyed Imperial within is still glaring at me. When the jailer begins to read off a summary of his crimes, I stop him with a gesture.

"I want to hear it from this man personally," I explain. I move until I am only a hair's breadth away from the humming bars of the cage and inspect the man again. His uniform is torn, but I can still make out several insignia upon it that mark him as someone of fairly high rank. Imperial intelligence, perhaps? No. Not the right pattern. Something else. His black hair is short, the style tasteless. His face is unshaven, a pitch black stubble shadowing his jaw. He is thin, but when he gets to his feet I can sense that he's more agile than he seems. His hand briefly wavers over his hip, no doubt reaching for a blaster that's no longer there. Interesting habit. When he doesn't speak, I frown.

"Well, then? What are your crimes, _ex-_officer?" I demand. He doesn't seem surprised that I've discovered a part of his identity. His expression remains neutral. No fear in his eyes. No humility, either. He doesn't bow or grovel like the others. This body language tells me much. This man is used to holding the scepter of authority.

"My Lord, I have committed no crime." His voice is smooth and free of doubt – respectful to a point yet also full of confidence. Not something I would expect from a man fresh out of the torture chambers. When I don't respond, he looks up and those blue eyes take my breath away. Up close, the color looks even richer. It reminds me of the blue I often see on afterburners – the hottest part of the flame.

"Then why _are_ you here, Imperial?" I expect him to reply, but he doesn't. Instead, he just sneers and looks away. He doesn't resemble a rebel or a spy. So why the hatred in his gaze? Why the hesitation? All those of his kind that I've met have been more than eager to prostrate themselves before a Sith. We are superior, and the entire Empire knows it. This man's behavior makes little sense, especially considering that I'm holding the thread of his life in the palm of my hand.

The jailer speaks up again. "My Lord, if I may…that one hasn't talked to anyone about his crimes since he arrived. Heard that he's been court martialed by a Moff, I did."

_Either Tremel was desperate when searching for prisoners for you or he found an easy out that you should consider taking. _Nobody would bat an eyelash if I chose to kill this fool in cold blood. Being court-martialed these days usually leads to execution anyway. The growing tension between Empire and Republic will allow for no alternative. _This s__eems too simple, though. It would be far too easy to just execute him._ I listen to the jailer explain that this man nearly caused a major disaster at some important battle or another. Drecken-something, I think he says. I try to recall if I read about it in my studies, but nothing comes to mind.

"You heard this from a reliable source, I take it?" I ask him.

"Some of it's in his personnel file. Some of it…well…" The jailer doesn't have to finish his sentence. I can already smell a trap here. A personnel file isn't infallible. He isn't lying, but who is to say that those records weren't sabotaged by my rivals? I have so many here, after all, who want me dead. What better way to ensure that my reputation goes to tatters than by forcing me to make a mistake in this trial?

"Leave us, jailer."

"Pardon, My Lord?"

I force a tone of cruelty and anticipation. I hope it will be enough to convince him. "I want some time alone with this one. He seems reluctant. I can fix that."

"I'm to stay with you throughout the trial, My Lord," the jailer protests. I turn to him and wave my hand as though beckoning for him to come closer. Tugging on his will through the Force is too easy. He is weak-willed and frail of mind. I watch his eyes go blank as I suggest that he needs to fetch something from the storage room on the second floor. It won't buy me much time – perhaps fifteen, twenty minutes at best – but at this point I decide to take what I can get. Failure is not an option. As the jailer steps out and leaves me alone, I turn my attention to the ex-officer.

"You insist that you have committed no crime, yet officers aren't court martialed without cause." I cross my arms over my chest. "Explain yourself. Now. I don't have time for your worthless deceptions or petty emotions. You have one opportunity to be completely honest with me before I take matters into my own hands." I drop my voice, channeling all the hate and rage that I can muster into the next few words. "There isn't anyone here to police my actions, and I have full authority to do whatever is necessary to complete my task. Believe me, soldier – you'll be begging me to release you into the Inquisitors' custody by the time I'm through with you." My intimidation must have worked, for his face loses a few shades of color. I watch his throat convulse as he swallows thickly.

"Where should I begin, My Lord?" he mumbles.

"Details – who you are, why you were court-martialed, how you got to Korriban. But quickly, soldier. I'm not the patient sort." Though I'm restless now, I keep my voice even and strong. It is difficult to do now that I'm standing so close to him. Flashes of my dreams pull and tug at my attention. Flashes of those azure eyes and the warning that came with them.

The Force does not alter my dreams without a reason. If I see specific people or events, then I pay strict attention. At Ziost, my dreams were full of predictions that came true – predictions and signs that changed my life forever. Among my most recent visions, I saw this man's gaze. For weeks, it plagued my sleep. I have no doubt that this man will alter the course of my destiny.

_The question is how...what connection can some disobedient grunt have to a Sith? Who is he?_

"Captain Malavai Quinn – Imperial Officer. My story cannot be related in a few words…"

"Try. Your life depends on it," I threaten. He nods and takes a deep breath.

"The truth isn't as simple as my record would have you believe. I am here because I was betrayed by a Moff. Long ago, I made a decision to disobey him in an important battle. His mistake nearly cost us a victory and hundreds of Imperial lives, but I was able to salvage it. He has never forgiven me for dishonoring him, despite the fact that he took credit for the victory himself. This isn't the first time he's had me disciplined for one reason or another, but it is the first time he's gone as far as court martialing me. As to how I came to be in the Sith Academy," he shrugs. "Honestly, I don't know. One day, some men entered my personal quarters on my ship and blindfolded me. The next thing I knew, I was being strapped to an interrogation table." His explanation doesn't do anything to ease my tension. In fact, it just confirms my earlier suspicions and aggravates me. This trial is indeed a trap – one that's about as difficult to step out of as Bantha droppings. My mind whirs with activity as I try to consider all possible options. Inadvertently, I begin to pace the room.

Disobedience of a higher authority alone – no court martialing involved – often earns anyone in the Empire an instant death sentence. If I ignore this fact and let him go based on his testimony alone, I will look the fool. And wouldn't that earworm Vemrin just love to see me being scolded? But, if I kill him and it turns out that he's innocent of his charges, the outcome will be similar. The Overseers and other acolytes will whisper that I don't have the power to know whether he is lying or not.

_He isn't lying, but that doesn't make things any easier. _

As I move around, I catch my reflection in one of the shiny plasteel surfaces in the room. A young human girl stares back. Her waist-length red hair is tied back in a tight braid. Her eerie silver eyes are huge in her small face. She looks frail - thin and delicate. Not like a Sith. A true Sith would not allow this situation to disorient them.I bite my lip and frown, trying to remember the last time I looked in a mirror. Must have been before my last trial several weeks back.

The door to the jail hisses open, startling me. "I brought the supplies, My Lord," the jailer announces in a monotone, rattling a few boxes in his arms. The moment that he places the boxes on the ground, his eyes clear. My suggestion wears off. He looks around, confused. "Sorry, My Lord. I think I lost my train of thought for a sec. What was I saying again?"

"You were reading off this man's crimes to me," I reply, doing my best to appear unperturbed. A sound from my right catches my attention. I steal a glance at the ex-officer and see him cough. A corner of his mouth is twitching.

"What is your verdict, then?"

I raise my chin and reply without hesitation. "In this case, the evidence provided is not clear enough to allow a proper verdict to be dispensed. I reserve judgment, for now, and request that further evidence be provided."

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"You hesitated!" Tremel shouts, slamming his fist on the desk in front of him. His voice echoes off the walls, reverberating with fury. A part of me is amused. Seeing this man lose his composure isn't something I have a chance to witness very often. Ever since my arrival, the Overseer has struggled to maintain an image of a calm, collected, servant of the Empire. I know otherwise, of course. Detecting falsehoods is something of a specialty of mine, as is telling them.

"I made the only logical choice," I say in response to his yelling. "It's not as if I set a precedent. Others have reserved judgment in the past in other trials."

He shakes his head and rubs his temple. "Don't you see? It makes you look weak. You should have killed him. Insubordination and failure are stains that he will never be able to erase from his record. He deserves to be eliminated."

"Then eliminate him," I challenge.

"It's too late now. We have other problems and other concerns. For now, you've managed to pass the trial and must immediately move on to the next."

"What will happen to the prisoners?" I ask, trying not to sound too interested. Tremel pauses and searches my intentions. I can feel him rummaging around inside my emotions. Inwardly, I smile. A strong attempt, but still too weak to make it past my defenses. I keep my expression bored and look out the window, as though I'm unaware of what he is doing.

"The alien is being taken to interrogation as we speak. The other is being transferred," he reveals at length. _Where?_ – I want to ask. My heart skips a beat at the thought of losing the only clue to the meaning of my recent dreams. Technically, the prisoner is mine until a verdict is decided. If he is being moved off-world, then rules are being broken. Not unusual for the Academy. Just frustrating.

"What is my next trial?" I demand, attempting to change the subject. He describes my next task in extensive detail, making sure to emphasize every step. I take in what he says and make an effort to appear attentive. Inwardly, however, my mind drifts elsewhere – still trapped in the ex-officer's blue gaze. I struggle with several emotions. The sway he has over my thoughts confuses and angers me. The role he has yet to play in my destiny piques at my curiosity. The fact that I can't seem to get a Force-blind soldier – a nobody by my standards – out of my head disgusts me.

"…after you slay the beast. Do you understand, acolyte?" I nod and reassure the Overseer that I won't fail. "Will you leave immediately?"

"In the morning. At first light," I reply. I want to get started as soon as possible. Perhaps some bloodshed will set my thoughts in order at last. A realization. "What other problems were you speaking of?" I inquire, alluding to his earlier words. His grimace tells me that the issue is serious.

"I was hoping to keep your presence on Korriban hidden from certain individuals in the Academy, but doing so has proven exceedingly difficult over the past weeks. Someone _has_ noticed you, though for now this person seems only mildly curious."

"Who?"

"A man named Darth Baras."

"I haven't heard of him."

"You will, and when you get to know him, you will wish you had not."

"A Darth," I whisper, surprised. Most acolytes dream of being noticed by someone of such stature. "Does he know about my powers?"

"No," Tremel answers, his voice firm. "And I intend to keep that hidden from him. Should anyone find out, you will be vulnerable to attack." He sighs. "Right now, Vemrin is being groomed to be Baras's newest apprentice. This cannot be allowed to pass."

"What are you suggesting? That I take his place?" A beat. "Is that why you brought me here?" When he hesitates to answer, I frown. "If I become Baras's apprentice, he will know about my powers. You can't expect him not to notice."

"No," Tremel repeats and motions for me to sit down across from him. I do so. "No one must know. Ever. You must use your gift to your advantage and rise within the ranks. But, no one must know the details. Not if you want to survive." He reaches out and covers my hand with his own. He is a big man; his hand engulfs mine completely. Immediately, I pull away. He raises his palms and moves back. "Apologies, acolyte. I forget that you are averse to…"

"That's not it," I cut in. Aside from the unwelcome physical contact, something about his earlier words made me uncomfortable. As we look into each other's eyes, I recognize the cause. "Don't tell me you're getting sentimental towards me, Tremel," I sneer. "You have a daughter. Reserve this foolishness for her."

"If only my daughter was like you," he confides, sincerity ringing out in every word. "You have a strength in you that I have not seen anywhere else. You are everything a young Sith should be. That is why you _must_ make it through this gauntlet at the Academy. You _must_ find a powerful Master to guide you – one that will help you reach new heights of power and authority. You _must_ use your strength for the Empire." I remember my earlier thoughts, remember believing that nobody was on my side here on Korriban. For a moment, I process Tremel's words and consider them. I search the syllables for lies and deception.

"You mean what you say," I murmur. For a moment, I allow my mask to shift and reveal a vulnerability. Ever since I was pulled away from the orphanage on my home world and thrust into the world of the Sith, I've considered everyone to be my enemy. Now, perhaps, I could allow myself to consider someone to be an ally. "I will not fail."

"I know." He doesn't smile. There is no room for softness here. I gather the words and the confidence he's gifted me into a bundle of memory and hide them far away in the dark recesses of my mind. I will need them one day. For now, I need to stay focused.


	2. ACT I: Chapter 2

**STAR WARS:**

**The Amaranthine Wrath**

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**ACT I:**

**Chapter 2**

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_The tomb of Marka Ragnos smells of death and decay – of centuries of endless suffering. Time has eradicated all life from this place save one – the monstrous guardian. The Master is dead, but the beast remains loyal, guarding and protecting its creator's treasures and secrets. I recognize the creature as a Terentatek, a monstrosity created by the hands of Sith from the body of a rancor. _

_Its fury is palpable, its bloodlust potent. It towers above me. As it shifts and moves to circle me, grey flesh shimmers in the faint glow of the flames I lit while meditating. A sweet smell wafts to my nose, potent and eye-watering. The beast roars, flexes its massive claws, and snaps its jaws, glaring at me through eyes that resemble bottomless voids. _

_I know what it wants._

"_Blood…my blood…" I am strong with the Force, and that makes me this creature's only chance for survival. It's starving. No acolytes have been sent here for their trials in a long time. I recall reading about Marka Ragnos and his pet during my studies. As it circles me, I note all the scars on the monster's flesh that its master left behind. Had I been capable of feeling something as trifling as pity, I may have felt sorry for the thing and the life it led – full of abuse, hatred, and starvation. _

_After Ragnos's death, it was doomed to stay here for eternity, to hover on the border of starvation and insanity. The current situation does not warrant any sentiment, however. This thing wants to tear me to shreds, and the only way I can win is by matching its level of hatred with my own. I pull on the Force around me, on the power that feeds my emotions. My blood catches fire; my senses sharpen. I reach behind me and pull out my war blade. The moment it sees this, the creature attacks._

_Then the scene shifts. I am thrown into a hurricane of blurred colors and distorted sound. The battle transforms into a recording fast forwarded by invisible controls. The faster it zooms by, the less details I can see. I fight against the tide, wrestling with the flow of my dream to try and catch specific fragments of the scene. I recognize that this dream means to tell me of the trial I am to face. _

_No matter how much strength it costs me, I must know the outcome. Heedless of the consequences, I bury my hands in the river of scenery that rushes by me. Pain. Agony. Doing this hurts so much that I nearly let go. Nearly. I grit my teeth and rummage through the liquid possibilities, finally grabbing onto one and yanking it out of the river. The scene unfolds before me. I pray that it will show me my victory. Instead, I see red._

_The tomb of Marka Ragnos sprawls out in shadowy splendor. The light from my fires still illuminates the crumbling walls and the intricate carvings on them. The colossal Terentatek is there, hunched over as it leans over something on the ground. Its flesh is marred with fresh wounds – burns from a war blade. Skin that was previously grey is now glistening with crimson. My heart drums a chaotic rhythm in my chest; my eyes travel downwards – farther and farther – until I see a corpse at the monster's feet. The creature has torn it apart so thoroughly that I can't make out who it is._

_**You know…**_

_Yes. I do. I am Sith, and I will not back away from my fear. Though my instinct warns me not to get closer to the body – to the truth – I do. The dead woman is wearing armor that I recognize as mine. Her war blade is snapped in half, the fragments tossed aside. She lies in a pool of blood. As I step closer, I feel it coat my ghostly feet. The fluid is sticky, thick, and still warm. The Terentatek bites into her stomach, rummaging through organs and bones in clumsy attempts to get to the bloodiest portions of its victim's body. The crunching sounds of its fangs tearing through the woman sends me to my knees. At this level, I can see her hair – a red braid. _

_Mine._

_Clammy fingers of dread wrap around my throat. I shake my head. Impossible. Me? Defeated? At the hands of a monster? I sink lower, my body going limp as shock attempts to incapacitate me. I fight it. No. I will not accept this fate. There is much more that I must do. I know that I need to get up, that I must go back to the river to try and find other possibilities to this situation in their depths. I must go back to the battle; I must see what happened and what mistake let to my downfall. I place my palms on the ground and try to push myself up. My terror forces me back down. All sound disappears save for the crunching of the monster's teeth, the tearing of my flesh, the slurping of its tongue as it sucks out my blood._

_**Stop it! Stop! Leave me alone! Leave me in peace!**_

_In a desperate attempt to regain control, I cover my ears, close my eyes, and begin to chant the Sith code._

_**Peace is a lie. There is only passion...**_

_The crunching grows louder. I feel myself being pulled backwards. When I crack open my eyes, I see the monster above me. I am now inside the dead woman's body. My body. I scream, but no sound emerges. The creature opens its cavernous mouth. I gasp and breathe in the scent of something familiar. The sweet smell from earlier. Now that I'm closer to it, I can finally make out what it is._

_**Poison. Its claws and fangs are coated with venom...**_

_The last thing I see is its teeth closing around my throat._

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During the night, I sense death. The Force vibrates with raw killing intent, tearing me from my restless sleep. I am disoriented as I try to make sense of my surroundings. My recent nightmare is still fresh in my mind. Images flash before me in a dizzying procession, and I clamber to staunch their flow. I see the Terentatek above me, flinch as I remember the feeling of its fangs ripping me apart. I'm hyperventilating. My hands reach up to feel for the punctures in my neck, the gashes in my gut, the cuts all over my body. Only when I am reassured that I'm whole and unharmed do I begin to calm down.

I shudder, shoving my anxiety away with sheer willpower. No time for confusion. Someone is here – someone tangible who wishes me harm. There can only be one reason why someone would sneak around in my quarters uninvited in the middle of the night. Vemrin, my nemesis here, is making his move. This realization deadens my frayed nerves, takes the edge off the dread the nightmare has planted in my heart. But, not for long. Just when I think I've regained control of my emotions, I look down at myself. I swear that I can still see blood coating everything – my hands, my arms, the sterile white sheets that cover me.

_It isn't real. Focus. Use your fear. Embrace it. Let it fuel you._

I do my best to ignore the haunting illusions. My eyes fly around the pitch-black chamber, searching for the intruder in the inky darkness. I don't relax when I fail to see anything out of place. Instead, I kick off my sheets, reach over beside me, and pull out my war blade. I nudge the lever on the side of it with my thumb and watch my room light up with an eerie red glow. The weapon's familiar humming gives my mind something real to latch onto.

As I sit up, my body runs through a series of automated motions. The hand that holds my weapon moves in front of me for defense; my free hand reaches down and zips up my armored jacket; my feet slip into padded boots coated with aluminium. The attacker has caught me off-guard, but at least I'm armed and as protected as I can be. I don't remember the last time I wore anything but armor to sleep. Some might call it paranoia. I call it preparation.

A movement from the corner of my eye is the only warning I get before my enemy's blade flares to life in a blaze of orange and flies towards me. I duck down and roll forward, dodging a move that would have decapitated me. The blade spins around and flies backwards, a deadly boomerang. As its owner grips it, the orange light illuminates a man's face. I don't recognize him. Adrenaline pumps through my veins. Despite the situation, I'm still unable to shake off the remnants of my nightmare. The fear heightens my senses and bolsters my hostility. I can taste my opponent's hatred. Sour, tangy, vile – like blood; I respond in kind.

As Sith, it is my destiny to fight this way, to scramble to survive among a hostile culture that only respects supreme power. I understand my place; I know the Dark Side – I crave it. Killing has been a routine part of my life for many years now. I know that when I spill this man's blood, I won't regret it. I will hate him and lust for his destruction either until he is destroyed or until I am defeated. The latter is not an option. I do not want to die.

In fact, as we fight, Tremel's words come back to haunt me. I remember his faith in me, his desperate efforts to assure that I succeed. His blind devotion to the Empire confuses me. All I've ever known is the will to survive; all I've ever wanted was to find some place in the galaxy that I could call my own. I imagine that such a place would make me feel safe. There, I could leave my weapon on a stand instead of carrying it to my bed every night. There, I could sleep in soft silks instead of plated armor.

_That place isn't here – _I reflect as I am bombarded with my enemy's malicious aura. _This place is only a stepping stone._

We clash. My opponent has some skill, but not enough. The way he moves leaves too many openings. If I was at my full potential, I could crush him like an insect. As he tries to slash at my leg, I jump aside and push him back with a sphere of Force. He cries out as his body loses mobility and flies towards the opposite wall, connecting with a _thud_. He recovers quickly. In the faint light, my enemy – still nameless – looks me up and down, notes my armor. "Should have known this wouldn't be easy," he grunts and spits out a glob of blood onto the polished floor.

"You one of Vemrin's?" I ask, glancing towards his arm. I look for a thin red band – a trend that my rival has started that marks Acolytes as his lackeys. Using the brief lull in action to my advantage, I reach out with my senses to try and gauge his true strength. What I find disappoints me. "I don't see a band. Couldn't get into the fan club so you came here to prove yourself?" Instead of answering, he lunges forward. The more I recover from the harrowing experience of my dream, the slower and clumsier his movements feel. Was he hurt? Had my half-hearted attack injured him? Pathetic. I can see why Vemrin didn't want him as an ally. "You've got guts coming here knowing that I would destroy you."

"I will destroy _you_," he growls and slices upwards with his blade. I meet it half way with my own. As the weapons clash, the air thrums with power. Angry red and furious orange blend together to create a light as bright as a sunset. "What makes _you_ so special?" my opponent asks through gritted teeth. We fight to overpower each other. "I can handle Vemrin. I can handle hardship. I can handle competition. But _you_…" the rest of his words are lost in the screeching and howling caused by our blades as they collide.

No matter. I don't need to hear him to know everything he wants to say. This isn't the first time a rival acolyte has tried to kill me, after all. My arrival displaced many from their comfortable niches within the pecking order here. I've lost count of the number of displeased insects that have tried to take my life over the past weeks. Each had reasons they used to justify murder. Each had problems they believed to be unique to them. Sheep, every one of them. Their angry monologues are always the same; their actions so predictable that it almost hurts to watch them fail.

"Tonight, you _die_, usurper!" the man hollers.

I fake an opening, slouching my shoulders and lowering my face. Too incompetent to see through my ruse, he takes the bait. I watch his saber fly towards my heart, wonder what it would feel like to watch it slip through my chest and impale me. Not yet, though. It's much too early to consider death. I haven't achieved anything yet. I haven't even started. So, I dodge. I sway to the side. Moving forward to stab me has made him vulnerable to retaliation. I see his outstretched arm, note the way the angle of his torso leaves his throat exposed. No hesitation. No regrets. The fight comes to a grinding halt with a single motion. I twist forward and run my war blade through the soft point at the base of his neck. The smell of burning flesh nauseates me. I watch my enemy drop to the floor…lifeless.

Seconds tick by…minutes…or is it hours? I stand over the body long enough to feel the blood within it grow cold. The man's mouth hangs open, his expression forever warped in surprise and pain. His eyes stare through me, devoid of life yet still bearing traces of their owner's animosity. I've defeated him in combat. There is no shame in what I've done. So why am still standing here? Why is a single sentence looping in my head like a broken record?

_You didn't even know his name._

I am certain that, had the tables been turned, he would have celebrated his victory. He would have kicked my corpse out of his chambers and gone back to sleep, waiting to start another day in this purgatory called Korriban. Or would he? I can still smell his burned skin. Another bout of nausea makes me turn away. I holster my war blade and strap it to my back. What now? A glance at my clock tells me that I only have a couple of hours before morning – just a short time until my next trial at the tombs officially begins.

I think about what will happen when my alarm rings. Tremel will be expecting me in his office at dawn. How will I explain the events that transpired tonight? Acolytes are expressly forbidden from murdering each other. I've had to break that rule several times to defend myself, but all of those times had been during my trials out in the field. How will I explain the presence of a corpse in my personal quarters? Would anyone even believe me when I try to explain what happened?

_Tremel might_ – I reason with myself. I don't want to, but I reach down and force myself to pick up the man's body and drag it over to a password locked door near my closet. As I key in the code, the structure hisses open to reveal my trash compartment. The thing is about the size of a crawlspace, but at least it's hidden behind a door. If anyone comes snooping, they may not think to check here. I struggle to maneuver the large body around, stuffing his arms and legs into the tiny space.

His limbs are stiff, his muscles snapping and tearing as I move him. His head bobs around, those eyes accusing me even in death. And that smell…My nausea intensifies, and I bite back the urge to run to the toilet and empty the contents of my stomach. It takes me too long to squeeze him into the compartment – so long that I find myself wondering if I'm not in another nightmare. As soon as the body is out of sight, I make a decision.

_You have to see Tremel…_

* * *

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.

"You did _what_?" the Overseer demands, his voice hoarse. "What were you _thinking_? You _know_ the rules!" I don't need the Force to sense the man's frustration, though I'm somewhat surprised to see him shouting again. This feels like déjà vu. Just yesterday, he rounded on me for making a mistake during my trial with the prisoners. The conversation had gone in a similar direction then.

I observe his profile, try to sense his emotions through the Force. Exhaustion, frustration, anger, despondency. Yesterday, he was upset, but not like this. This most recent fiasco has heavily disturbed him. When I came to tell him about what had transpired, I didn't expect to find him in his office. The man had no need for sleep, it seemed, and worked around the clock to find new trials for me to complete on Korriban.

"What was I supposed to do?" I ask defensively but with a controlled veneer of calm. "He broke into my quarters and tried to kill me."

"You should have incapacitated him. Knocked him out. Reported him." Tremel grimaces and rubs his forehead. "Instead, you've openly killed another acolyte. Not only that, but you tried to hide the evidence."

"Somehow, I don't think a gentle warning from the higher-ups would have stopped him. You should have seen him – _heard_ him – this man was determined and full of righteous conviction."

"They are _all_ determined – every single one of them," he counters. "The acolytes and the Overseers responsible for them. They will all do everything in their power to see you fail. And now, they have. You've _failed_…"

"I killed a man in self-defense. Surely that means - "

"Nothing," Tremel cuts in. "It means nothing. His _life_ means nothing. Your _excuses_ mean nothing. The only thing that means something is the fact that you've broken the rules."

"It's not so simple…" I try to argue. His rebuff and refusal to listen cut me to the quick.

"And why did you come here, acolyte? What did you think _I_ could do about this?" he frowns.

"I thought you could help me. I thought…" before I can make a fool of myself, I stop and look away.

"I am your Overseer, not your babysitter. I can't clean up all of your messes. First the prisoner, and now this? Your actions speak of your lack of judgment, girl," he sneers. I'm furious now – disappointed. Not with my would-be assassin or with Tremel, but with myself. How could I have ever considered trusting him? Did I actually dare to think that he could be my ally? I should have just thrown the body down the compactor. I should have taken it out to the desert and burned it. I should have found a way to solve this situation on my own.

"Forgive me," I reply, bitterness heavy in my voice. I want to go on, but I don't know what to say. I dare not speak further for fear of saying something that I will later come to regret. He may not be my ally after all, but he isn't my enemy either. I hope that he still sees me as a worthy investment of his time and resources. It's the only way I will ever make it through the Academy in one piece.

He sighs, his face strained. His ebony skin is taught over his cheek bones, age spots dotting his forehead. The dim light accents the wrinkles there and makes him look even older than usual. When he steps towards me and reaches out, I step back on instinct. He lowers his hands and purses his lips. All at once, I can sense his remorse. He regrets his harsh words, but I am not one to forgive so easily. Tremel frowns and reaches into his pocket, pulling out a holo communicator. He keys in a frequency. The device pings for a moment before the ghostly image of a young man appears on it.

"My Lord?"

"My office. Twenty minutes."

"Understood." The image fades. I want to ask him what the exchange was all about, but I don't trust myself to speak yet.

"Acolyte, you will forget about this incident. Right now, you need to focus on your trial in the tomb of Marka Ragnos. Are you prepared to leave? I will arrange for a shuttle to pick you up in an hour from the Academy steps." Though he asks me if I'm ready, I know that I only have the option of nodding. Ready or not, he wants me out of here. I glance towards the only window in the office. The sun hasn't risen yet. There are still two hours before dawn. "Go, then. Prepare yourself, and do not return until you have slain the beast."

* * *

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.

My stomach rumbles with hunger, but my feet do not take me to my quarters for sustenance. Every time I think of the body hidden in the trash compartment, I feel sick. I can't imagine eating in that room. Or eating at all. Tremel would disapprove. He would want me to be at the peak of my strength when facing the challenge ahead. My logic tells me that I need something in my stomach, especially if my dream was any kind of foreshadowing to what I will face later.

Somehow, though, I can't bring myself to care. I've faced hunger before. Back on Ziost, Overseers abused us for their own sadistic pleasure. They starved us for days and beat us for the smallest of offenses. This isn't the first time I've had to ignore complaints from my body, and it won't be the last. What eats at me more than my longing for food is the realization that I really am alone – that the life I want as a Sith will always keep me isolated from anything except my own passions and agendas. Any alliances I make will always be shallow. Anyone I ever call a friend will always be tempted to stab me in the back. Can I live like that? Is this truly what I'm working towards?

I am so lost in thought that I'm surprised when I look up and find myself in front of the Academy jails. I have no recollection of coming this way. At first, I turn to walk away, but a sudden thought stops me. I remember what Tremel said about my blue-eyed prisoner and his transfer. I haven't thought of him since yesterday, and now that I have, I can't squash a sudden bout of curiosity.

Before I can understand the reasons behind my actions, I push open the password protected doors using the Force and enter the jail. Most of the cells are empty, the cages powered down and silent. No lights here. I struggle to see as I stumble around, making my way towards the place where I completed my last trial. Eventually, my eyes adjust. In this unnatural quiet, I expect to see more empty cages and bloodied interrogation tables. Instead, I find _him_.

The blue-eyed mystery.

He hasn't heard me yet. In fact, he is sleeping. As I move closer, however, he blinks and shakes his head. He takes in his surroundings then finally notices me. Our gazes lock. I wonder what he is thinking. I'm sure that the situation must seem strange. An acolyte sneaking into the jails in the middle of the night to see…what, exactly? Him? If only I knew the answer to that myself. I struggle to find something to say, desperate to justify my presence here. I feel the same confusion assail me as the first time I saw him. Frustrated, I blurt out the first thing that comes to mind –

"You should never look a Sith directly in the eyes, _ex_-officer."

"Forgive me, My Lord," he mumbles. When he looks away, I feel like I've lost something important – almost like I've strengthened the barrier between us erected by social status and pedigree. It shouldn't matter – I tell myself. This man means nothing to me. His desires, personal opinions, and problems are as far beneath me as the surface of a planet below a hovering space station.

_So why are you here?_

"You were supposed to be transferred," I continue, trying to keep the awkward hesitation out of my voice. "Why are you still here?" He shrugs. I frown. "Answer properly, Imperial."

"I don't know, My Lord." His voice is dead, like a droid's. I notice that there is more blood on his uniform than yesterday. Was he tortured after I left? Did the Inquisitors take him under their wing? Such things weren't unheard of. If one Inquisitor had a particular amount of authority, he could "purchase" prisoners to toy with. Sometimes this merely delayed their trial. Other times, the prisoners died on the table without any trial at all.

"You don't _know_ or you don't _care_?" I ask. I'm relieved to feel my anger returning. Anger is much better than the despair I felt after walking out of Tremel's office. Anger strengthens me, bolsters me, and empowers me. The prisoner shrugs again. Another suspicion takes the place of the first. Perhaps he isn't the true victim here. Perhaps he was placed in my path to distract me. By who, though? Vemrin? No. Too stupid. The man is more brawn than brains. Tremel? No. The man has made my success his top priority. Then who?

"Perhaps you don't wish to tell me," I continue. "Perhaps I should _make _you tell me." I expect him to blanch like he did the first time we spoke. I anticipate his fear. Yet, I quickly learn that what I expect from this man is rarely what I'm actually going to get. Instead of cowering, he tilts back his head and rests it against the powered-down bars of his cage.

"Go ahead, My Lord. There is nothing more for me to say. I've told you all I could." A smile tugs at his lips – tired, wan, full of hopelessness. "Not that anything that I say will dissuade you from hurting me." His open defiance rubs me the wrong way. The past few hours have made me feel more helpless than I've felt in months. If there is anything that I hate, it is the sensation of being unable to exert control over anything. I am Sith. I am the master of control.

My emotions spiral outward, feeding me dark images. He wants to undermine my authority, does he? He wants to mock me and get away with it? Perhaps I should show him his own folly – fill his nerves with so much pain that he never forgets the lesson. I imagine this man at my mercy, imagine how he would sound as he begs to me to stop hurting him. Then, his face changes. Vemrin's terrified features take its place. Pleasure warms my belly at the sight. How I would love to make him squeal. How I would love to give him a taste of his own medicine. My hand rises. I tug on the strings of Force around me and wrap it around the prisoner's neck.

_He isn't Vemrin._

My train of thought is shattered. I blink a few times as my vision comes back into focus. In front of me, the prisoner is struggling to breathe. Even in this darkness, I can see his face turning a rich shade of purple. I'm choking the life out of him.

_His name is Quinn. Malavai Quinn._

Somehow, giving the prisoner a name in my mind makes him seem more important. Less like an insect. I release him and examine my gloved hand. As Quinn coughs and struggles to regain his senses, I lose myself in a new kind of inner turmoil. The assassin's face comes back to haunt me – the way his eyes continued to spit hate at me even after I killed him. Is that all I am? Someone to be hated and someone who knows nothing but hate? I don't want to think about this so deeply. I do what I must to survive, to become a true Sith. This is my destiny.

"You know I am Sith, yet you defy me," I hear myself say. "Why?" The ex-officer rubs his throat and glares at me, still coughing. When he regains his composure, he replies.

"I do not mean to defy you, My Lord."

"Yet you do."

He slumps back against the walls of his prison, rubbing at his neck. "Perhaps after all I've been through, my tolerance levels aren't what they used to be."

"Tolerance?" I ask, my curiosity piqued.

"For Sith and their games…" The way he says the words should annoy me, but they only make me more curious. I allow him to go on. "They are our rulers. Yet, they fight each other and kill each other for power when they should be using their strength to help the Empire."

"The Empire has abandoned you," I counter. "Your superiors left you here to rot for a crime you say you didn't commit."

"My superiors are not the Empire." I wait for him to elaborate. When he remains silent, I move closer to him.

_Here is a man more miserable than you_ – I reflect. _Yet he doesn't give in. _I sense the hope in his heart – a belief in some sort of cause. A distinct lack of ego and awareness of "self".

"You love the Empire and hate the Sith. But you know, without the Sith as its backbone, the Empire would be nothing."

"You're right, of course. Their power is necessary. I respect them and their strength."

"But you dislike them."

"No, My Lord. I do not dislike the Sith – simply some of their methods." He turns to look at me. "You are very privileged. If only I had your authority – your power. I would use it to make the Empire even stronger."

"You are a prisoner," I cut in. "You will likely die here. Yet still you speak of serving the Empire?"

"Yes. I will always serve the Empire. The only thing I regret is that my death will not help our cause in any way." His words give me new perspective. He reminds me of Tremel, always spouting speeches about perfecting the Empire and fighting for its glory. He reminds me of some of the texts I've been forced to read over the years, the propaganda that describes the perfect Imperial as one who would not hesitate to die for the greater good. To me, this point of view is alien.

"I…have never thought of serving a higher cause," I confess. "My only concern has ever been to survive."

"Survive? As a Sith?" this time, I can hear that I've caught his interest. When I hesitate to say anything else, he urges me to continue. "My Lord, could you please explain what you mean?" Some life has returned to his voice again.

For reasons I can't explain, I begin to tell him things I've never shared with anyone. I relate some of my hardships on Ziost, the challenges I've faced since I arrived on Korriban, and the trial that I am about to face in Marka Ragnos's tomb. At some point, I sit down in front of his cage. Throughout the entire conversation, his eyes never waver from mine. I can tell he is truly listening and considering my words. Perhaps I am bolstered by the knowledge that he will die soon – that he will take the secret of my inner conflict to his grave.

"I never knew that Sith faced such…hardship," he admits. I can tell he means what he says. This is the first time anyone has ever sympathized with me or my situation. I'm unsure of what to make of the development.

"I don't need your sympathy, Quinn," I declare, folding my arms across my chest.

"My Lord, you remember my name?" he sounds genuinely surprised. He's not the only one. Since when did I bother to remember names of lowly prisoners?

A sharp sound startles us both. The holo communicator in my pocket is beeping, alerting me that Tremel's taxi is waiting for me outside. Has it really been an hour already? Quinn – no, the prisoner – looks at me with an expression I can't identify. His brow is marred by a long furrow. His eyes radiate with focus.

_What are you doing? Have you lost your senses?_

At that moment, the whole thing – my confiding in him and his unexpected empathy – feels wrong. I begin to regret my decision to say anything at all. If he was planted here by my rivals, then I just gave them information that could be used against me in the future. Suddenly, all I want to do is get out of here. I want to face my trial – to fight, to hate, and to triumph over my foe in battle. I want to feel powerful - in control. I stand up, prepared to leave everything behind, when something latches onto my hand. I look back with a start. Quinn is holding my wrist through the bars of his cage. His hand feels warm, strange, and horrible.

"What are you doing? How _dare_ you touch me?" I demand to know, ripping my hand from his hold. I tuck it against my chest. My skin crawls.

"My Lord, before you leave, please tell me your name." His request throws me off balance.

"You want to know my name? Why?" He spends a moment in silence, and I realize that he doesn't really know himself. I sense his confusion, his hesitation.

"It's something you mentioned…about other Sith saying they would forget you if you died. I may not have long to live, but..." Damn those eyes. Damn his sympathy. Damn him!

"I already said that don't want your pity, _ex-_officer," I grind out between clenched teeth, rubbing at my wrist. I can still feel the warmth of his hand. It's as though I've dipped my hand into a bottle of diseased slime. "I am Sith. Dying isn't on my to-do list, not now or in the foreseeable future."

"It isn't pity," he argues. My holo communicator beeps again. "Please, My Lord. Your name." His plea triggers a memory. My name. It takes me a moment to recall it. The last time anyone – even I – spoke my name was on my mother's deathbed many years ago. I remember holding her hand, watching – and sensing – as her life slipped out of her. Back then, I wasn't an acolyte or rising Sith. Back then, I was just a girl who knew nothing of the cruelty of the world around her. In my mind, I see my mother's fire-scarred lips moving as she breathes her last and whispers –

"Seraphine…"

Before he can react or say anything else to make me feel more vulnerable, I escape. I whirl around and run out of the jail towards my next trial.

Towards the tomb of Marka Ragnos.

Towards my probable death.


	3. ACT I: Chapter 3

**STAR WARS:**

**The Amaranthine Wrath**

* * *

**ACT I:**

**Chapter 3**

* * *

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.

As I step out onto the Academy's marble steps, I see a faint light over the horizon. Rays of sunlight illuminate towering mountains and sprawling ruins. The scenery is exotic and wild – untamed. Everything on Korriban is so…red. Almost like the sand and rocks are saturated with the blood of those who did not endure the rigorous journey of becoming Sith. It's beautiful in the cruelest of ways. This breathtaking scenery is both motivation to survive and a reminder that I may not. I focus on the light, trying to memorize the details it unveils, wondering if this is the last time that I will see them. The sky brightens. Dawn is coming.

My death approaches.

At the base of the steps hovers a shuttle that looks like it's been through a grind in a Tuk'ata's mouth. Dents and various punctures mar its surface. The only thing that marks it as Academy property is a small faded logo on the back. Countless sandstorms and harsh climate have taken their toll on the pathetic taxi, eating away paint and protective coating and leaving its metallic innards to rust. The droid driving the vehicle is in no better shape. It greets me in a scratchy monotone as I approach. After scanning me to confirm my identity, it opens the passenger door and allows me entry. Now that I'm closer, I can make out a few more details on the droid. It looks like an older model than the ones I'm used to seeing around the Academy grounds.

"Droid, who ordered this taxi?" I demand.

"Unknown," it rasps. It must have been my Overseer. No one else is aware of this trial yet, and the holo communicator in my pocket only relays messages between two frequencies – mine and Tremel's. I know he is angry with me, but this thing looks like it's going to explode or break down at any moment. Surely he isn't mad enough to risk my safety this way.

"What is the last recorded maintenance date for this vehicle?"

"Unknown."

"Does this taxi belong to the Academy?" I somehow doubt it. The logo is there, but…

"Unknown," the droid repeats. It blinks at me with a pair of eyes that resemble dying headlights. "No known records exist for this vehicle."

_Unregistered taxi driven by an unregistered droid_– I realize. Normally, all taxis that belong to the Academy have their own beacons. No acolyte is allowed to board one without express permission from a higher authority, and any taxi that leaves the grounds is immediately tracked. All routes and destinations are reported back to the Academy. By assigning me this particular car, Tremel is ensuring that I can't easily be followed. Without saying anything, the droid calls my attention to a compartment in front of me. When it points to a hidden latch there, I pull on it and start when something heavy drops into my lap. I pick it up and examine it.

"A lightsaber…" I murmur in surprise. It isn't the sturdiest thing I've ever seen. In fact, it looks old and worn. Yet, something about it feels familiar. Typically, Acolytes aren't allowed anywhere near lightsabers until they've passed a certain amount of trials. Rules be damned. Knowing what I'm going to face in the tomb, I decide that this will give me an immense advantage. When I press the switch, the saber roars to life. The color makes me flinch. "Green…like a Jedi's. What are you thinking, Tremel?" As the taxi lifts into the air and zooms off towards our destination, I wonder about the Overseer's motives.

After that scolding he gave me in his office, I didn't think he would care if anyone got wind of where my next trial would be or what weapon I'd be using. Apparently, that wasn't the case. Arranging for something like this is a huge personal risk. Not only is he interfering in my trial – he is showing favoritism. He may be an Overseer, but he is not immune to reprimands from higher authorities. Perhaps he still believes that I'm worth the risk. The landscape flies by me as I try to understand my own feelings on the matter.

He is clearly doing me a favor, but that doesn't mean there's anything personal about it. Now that I know what Tremel expects of me – to unseat Vemrin from his cushy position as Baras's favorite – I understand that this is just business. I wonder how different things would be if Tremel knew about my dream and the disaster it foretold. I'm sure he would abandon me at the drop of a hat. There is no room among the Sith for failure.

"We have arrived," the droid announces, snapping me out of my reverie. I open the taxi door and hop out. My boots sink into red sand. "Have a pleasant stay," the robot concludes in a cheerful voice. Before I can ask about my return journey – assuming there will be one – it turns the car around and hovers away in the opposite direction. The maneuver kicks up a cloud of dust. All I'm left with is a blast of hot air in my face and the realization that – from here on out – I'm completely and utterly alone.

My heart rate accelerates. The tomb is behind me. I stand still for an unknown span of time – battling my dread, battling my insecurities, battling my fear. A clouded mind will only weaken me. If I'm in doubt about my decisions, I'll only die that much faster. I remember an exercise one of my instructors taught me back on Ziost and roll my shoulders. Letting out a long breath, I close my eyes and try to connect with my surroundings.

_Peace is a lie. There is only passion…_

I shift my feet, feel the sand move and give way beneath my heels. Stretching out my senses, I shiver as the air bends around my body. I merge with the open sky. I breathe in the scent of moist earth and aging stone. Behind me, I _feel_ the tomb of Marka Ragnos. Though I know that it is hidden deep within the ruins, I can sense the dark energy from it as though I'm standing at its center. As I breathe, it does too. My spine tingles. I feel the weight of the lightsaber in my dominant hand, tighten my grip as it responds to my will. Then, I unstrap my war blade, gather my strength, and prepare for the fight ahead.

I recall what I told the ex-officer back in the jails. I don't want to die. Not today. Not tomorrow. Not ever. I will survive this. I will live and fulfill my destiny – the one I saw so many years ago. It doesn't matter if I have to fight alone; it doesn't matter if the entire world chooses to oppose me. I will carve out my place in the galaxy by force if I have to. With this determination at the forefront of my thoughts, I turn around.

It's time.

The moment I was called to Korriban ahead of schedule, I knew that I would have to conserve my full strength for something important. I knew that I would need to use my hidden power at least once. For that reason, I bottled up excess emotion. I didn't completely cut off my feelings. Doing so would have weakened me too much. Instead, I siphoned. Piece by piece. I bided my time in preparation for a moment like this.

Inhaling deeply of the crisp morning air, I steady myself then touch my free hand to my heart and draw a circle on my chest. I imagine the Force as a key to the prison in my mind and turn it. Releasing the breath in slow – almost painful – counts, I tilt back my head and unleash all of the barriers I've placed over my feelings for the past several weeks.

_If only Vemrin was here –_I think. _Or anyone._

I imagine all of them would kill to finally know my secret. The moment I finish turning the key in my mind, I gasp. Agony assails me – the pain of a thousand different sensations and emotions. They all clamor for dominance, and I struggle to hold them in check. The sand around me begins to swirl and shift. This is dangerous and risky. I've only used this power twice before; there are many things I still don't understand about it.

I look at the entrance of the ruins. Beyond the intricate carvings of the doorway, I can't see anything but viscous darkness. The beast within has sensed my presence. It calls to me, beckons me to enter. I do so, pressing the switch on my war blade to activate it. I pass through gloomy hallways and corridors filled with vast emptiness. The carvings on the walls tell of stories that I have no interest in. Right now, all I want – all I can allow myself to feel – is the need to come out of this alive.

I run faster than the wind can fly. My blades are the only source of light. That, and the glow of the Force that surrounds me. I encounter a few Shyraks and other lower beasts. When they catch sight of me, they flee. I pull on their terror, use it to feed the Vortex within me. I don't blame them for being afraid. Only a handful of people have ever seen me unleash my unique abilities, and all of them described the experience as terrifying. With as much Force and emotion that I have wrapped around me now, I am a hurricane of dread. I am the antithesis of life. I am a walking nightmare. By the time I reach the tomb of Marka Ragnos, I am full to the brim with power.

The stone doors before me are a nuisance. I blast them apart with a flick of my wrist.

**_At last…_**a voice hisses from the abyssal darkness. **_At last, you've come…_**

An altar stands in the center of the otherwise empty room. Where is the beast? I raise my blades in front of me, my legs bending in a tight crouch. Restless, I circle the first half of the enormous chamber. It's so dark here. I expect the creature to use that darkness to its advantage. Yet, no matter how long I wait, the tomb shows all signs of being vacant. In my mind, I'm screaming curses. I don't have time to wait! I want to fight. I want to finish this as quickly as possible. After all, I don't know how long the Vortex will last. My gift has always been as unpredictable as a sandstorm.

Maybe the beast is sleeping. Jogging further into the room, I start shouting and making as much noise as possible to draw it out. Nothing. Just an eerie silence that hurts my ears. I glance at the altar, think that maybe I should meditate. Then I laugh – bitter, hysterical laughter. Meditate? In this state? No. Out of the question. I don't want to still my mind. I don't need to focus my anger. I _am _anger! I'm seething with rage, boiling with fury. I look around and want to tear down the walls, brick by brick, until I find my enemy and destroy him. Maybe if I blow this place to bits, the beast will show itself.

**_Such power…such strength…I've been waiting for you for decades…come, give me your essence…_**

Finally, I see what I am searching for. I feel the significance of the scene before me, remember that this is just how it began in my dream…

The creature moves through the shadows as though it owns them. The sound of dragging and shuffling of scaly flesh across stone breaks the silence around me. The massive form of the Terentatek slips into the flickering light. Its fury is palpable, its bloodlust potent. In its heart, there is no fear. Only a hunger that drives each of its breaths. I should have known that a creature like this wouldn't be affected by the Vortex.

It towers above me. In person, it looks much more intimidating. As it shifts and moves to circle me, grey flesh shimmers in the faint glow cast on our surroundings by my lightsaber and war blade. A sweet smell wafts to my nose. I know what it is this time around. Venom. Poison. This is what kills me.

_You __can't let it touch you_ – I decide. _You have to give it a wide berth between attacks._

The beast roars, flexes its massive claws, and snaps its jaws, glaring at me through eyes that resemble bottomless voids. I've heard its whispers in my mind for a while now, but even without them I know what it wants.

Déjà vu.

"Blood…you thirst for my blood…"

As it circles me, I note all the scars on the monster's flesh that its master left behind. In person, I see them in clearer detail. Whip marks, laser burns, torn and carved flesh – and there, on its forehead, is Marka Ragnos's personal symbol. Just like my dream, I'm tempted to feel sorry for the terrible life it led – full of abuse, hatred, and neglect. After Ragnos's death, it was doomed to stay here for eternity, to hover on the border of starvation and insanity.

The current situation does not warrant any sentiment, however. Nor does the Vortex around me. The power leaves my mind clear, an advantage that I will sorely need. Again, the Terentatek growls. My dreams – and fate – have decreed that I am to die here this day. The only way I can fight against that and win is with focus and precision. I pull on the whirlwind of Force around me, on the emotions that I have been storing away for so long. My blood catches fire; my senses sharpen. I tighten the grip on my blades. The moment it sees this, the creature attacks.

My first priority is to keep my distance from those huge poisonous claws. It understands the threat they pose and swipes at me as I circle around it. I decide to try and get a feel for how this thing moves. The first few minutes are spent on analysis. Jump forward. Attack. Claws and tusks are unaffected by my sabers. Good to know. Now, dance backwards. Defend. Soon, I begin to see a pattern – a rhythm – in its motions. Its large body limits its speed, while my Vortex makes me faster with every second that it is wrapped around me. Crouching down, I pool Force in my feet then launch upwards and run across the ceiling to get a better view.

I note the shell-like scales on its back. My vision narrows in on a soft spot of flesh just beneath them. The scales are dark grey, but this spot is light pink – unprotected, vulnerable. Terentatek anatomy isn't something that I've studied extensively – or at all – but I do know the basics of how muscles work. I run into its range several times to observe how its musculature functions when it moves its arms. Every time it lashes out with an enormous limb, I see the pink flesh move. A tendon? Perfect. What I want to do is a huge risk, but if I pull enough Force from my energy cloak, I calculate that I could jump in and slice a few of its tendons open before it can hit me.

_You just need a distraction._

Then a memory hits me. Just several hours prior, I watched the assassin in my room throw his war blade like a boomerang. I've never seen anyone do this before, but the idea intrigues me. I wish I could test it, but the motion will only work as a distraction if it has the element of surprise. I decide to attempt this with my own war blade rather than the lightsaber. Should something go amiss, I will need the stronger weapon intact.

_No hesitation. No fear. Just focus._

Taking a moment to gather even more Force at my feet, I leap to the side wall and use it as a ramp to accelerate into a run. Much like my Vortex, I begin to circle around the Terentatek at dizzying speed. It struggles to keep up with me, its huge white eyes bulging out of its skull and its tongue spraying mucus everywhere. Then, right as I see it turn to catch me, I throw my war blade in a spinning horizontal arc.

The spin isn't perfect. I know right away that it won't return to my hand. No matter. That wasn't the goal. For now, the weapon did what it was supposed to. The Terentatek is caught off-guard. It attempts to knock the war blade aside but misses. I hear the sizzling of burned flesh as the blade embeds itself into the monster's chest. No time to waste. As it's reaching down to try to pry the blade out of its body, I sail upwards and use the momentum I've gathered in my run to flip forward. By the time it realizes what I'm up to, my lightsaber is already slicing a long blazing gash down its back. The beast howls in pain and fury, turning and lashing out with its tusks.

I feel fate stir. This is it. This is the moment of truth. I watch the tusks coming towards me and know that I can't dodge them. I'm fast, but not fast enough. I'm not entirely defenseless, however. Had the war blade been my only weapon, I would have been impaled. However, I still have my lightsaber. I grit my teeth and move it in front of me. The tusk connects with the powerful beam and pushes it back into me. I smell burning skin and scream as the side of the saber digs into my stomach. The force of the blow throws me back. I manage to summon up enough strength to roll in order to avoid dying from the impact to the ground.

In the aftermath, I lie still, dazed and disoriented as the agony of my injury runs through me. The ground beneath me shakes and trembles. My breathing comes in short, pained, gasps. With a groan, I turn my head. The Terentatek thrashes about, its right side completely useless. Blood runs like a river down its back. Everything feels far away – the monster, it's howling, everything. I know that I have to get up, to finish it, but my limbs feel as heavy as lumps of Mandalorian iron. I'm still in control of my mind, however, and I try to assess the extent of my injuries to the best of my ability. I raise my head as far as I can and look down at my body.

The lightsaber singed a long thick line down the middle of my stomach, burning through the armor on my jacket. It managed to hit my hand, too, and burned a gash into my wrist. The majority of the impact was absorbed by my armor. _Thank the Stars._ When I think about how close I came to losing my hand, I flinch. These injuries aren't life threatening though. What I need to know is if the poison on the tusk got into my system. I look again, but all I can see are burns from my saber. It seems that the blade – though it hurt me – also shielded me.

It takes me a moment to mentally grope around for the presence of the Vortex. During the confusion, I lost my focus and nearly let it go. Now that I can concentrate again, I pull it back. The power is almost spent. It's weaker than before. Much weaker. I probably only have enough juice for one more strong assault. Somehow, knowing that I'm nearly out of time gives me the last boost of determination I need to get back up.

As I roll to my feet, I summon my lightsaber into my hand and activate it. The Terentatek sees me recover and roars, spraying saliva and venom all over the walls. I recognize this as a last ditch effort to intimidate me. Now that I'm on higher ground, I can see that the wound I inflicted on it is more severe than I thought. That pink flesh on its back must have been more than a tendon. Blood seeps from the gash there, coating the creature's back and pooling all over the ground. When it walks towards me, it stumbles. _You could probably just outlast it if you wait long enough_ – I think, imagining it bleeding to death. But, no. This is my moment of glory. This is my victory. My triumph over fate.

**_Impossible…impossible…_**I hear the beast moan in my thoughts.

I approach it from its wounded side, and although it tries to turn so I don't have the upper hand, it's slowed and weakened by blood loss and pain. Something on the ground catches my eye. It's my war blade, snapped in half and broken. The faithful companion has likely saved my life, but right now I don't have time to mourn its loss. Just as I make this decision, the beast comes at me with another swipe of its claws.

Too slow.

I dodge back then jump up onto its hand. It tries to shake me off; I spring forward and land on its shoulder. As soon as I'm within range, I go for its throat. With a shout – or maybe it's a scream – of fury, I embed my lightsaber into its neck and run across to the other shoulder. Blood spews forth in gushing hot fountains. I make a glorious mess as I slit its throat and jump back down to the ground. The Terentatek doesn't even have enough life left to roar. It wavers on its feet for a moment before dropping to the floor in a lifeless heap.

Just in time. The whirlwind around me weakens then disappears. The beast is dead, and I'm still standing. I wonder what this means for my future. Coughing to clear my lungs of the dust the monster's body kicked up when it fell, I move towards it. Grabbing the tip of one of its curved horns in my free hand, I use my lightsaber to detach it from the head. It comes away mostly clean aside from several bits of dangling grey flesh. Tremel wasn't specific about how I would prove that I'd killed the beast. I figure a trophy like this will be undeniable proof of my incredible achievement. No one will be able to say a word against me.

Then, just as I think that I may have made it out of this ordeal with fairly little consequence, my knees give way. I only have a moment to try and understand what's happening before the worst pain that I've ever felt consumes my skull. With a scream, I spiral downwards into what I can only describe as sheer madness. After that, my thoughts come in fragments split into different voices.

_What's happening?_It hurts! Make it stop. So much pain…_What's going on?_**_This must be the backlash from your powers._** My head is going to explode. If I don't…_Why is everything spinning?_**_You should have considered that this would happen…_**do something quickly or I'll go mad. I need to…**_This is the price you must pay for being what you are…_**stand up and get out of here. I can't stay…_Why is everything on fire?…_here or I'll be vulnerable. _Fire. Such beautiful, horrible flames._I need to get away. _Flames just like the ones that burned Father alive._**_You can't let anyone see you like this!_**

My Vortex has collapsed. All the emotions that spun around inside of it are now turned against me. I can feel tears running down my face. My body is convulsing with violent spasms. In the distance – somewhere far away in the realm of sanity – I can hear myself sobbing. Through this acidic fog, I struggle to crawl somewhere and hide. I'm no stranger to this. It will pass. In time. But until then, I'm completely and utterly incapacitated. I slither on hands and knees through dust and blood-soaked sand. Each movement costs me all of my willpower. Forcing my limbs to move is a task equivalent to wrestling with smoke. Each command I give my body is as intangible as air. I go as far as I can before my body stiffens and curls into a fetal position.

_My home is burning._Please, leave me in peace. **_Stop being a coward._**_Everything is burning. Everyone is dying._I don't want to see this. **_Peace is a lie. There is only passion._**_So many screams. Please, no!_I don't want to relive these memories. **_Through passion, I gain strength._**_It's all their fault. All their fault._They must pay. **_Through strength, I gain power._**_They took everything from me._That scum. That scum will pay for what they've done. **_Through power, I gain victory._**_I will avenge my sorrow. I will carve my justice into their flesh._ Yes…**_Through victory, my chains are broken._**_I will have vengeance!_**_The Force shall free me._**

As I fight with everything I have to regain my sanity, my surroundings come back into focus. I say a silent thank you to whatever divine entity is bothering to listen. I've made it out of the abyss. But, I'm weak. My body will not obey me. Anyone – even a Force-blind untrained child – could destroy me right now. This incident has cemented Tremel's warning to me. No one must ever know about my gift, especially not the curse that comes with it. I cannot trust anyone with this knowledge, for I know that it will be used against me. In my arrogance, I thought I could control it. Now I see that it may take me years to master this power – if I ever master it at all.

I look up and see that I've managed to crawl under the stone altar at the center of the room. The space is tight and makes me claustrophobic. It takes me longer than I would like, but I manage to maneuver myself out and get to my feet. My knees tremble as I walk over to the horn I severed earlier and pick it up. I search for my lightsaber and call it into my hand. I must look horrible, but a part of me insists that I can blame it on the ordeal of fighting the tomb's guardian. Before I leave the tomb for the last time, I glance back at the dead body of the creature. My back straightens.

_With this, you are one step closer to becoming Sith._


	4. ACT I: Chapter 4

**STAR WARS:**

**The Amaranthine Wrath**

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**ACT I:**

**Chapter 4**

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I trudge through the red sand towards the Academy as fast as I can. Each step is painful. Hours of stomping and shuffling over dunes has rubbed my heels raw. My armored boots are built for combat, not intense desert hiking. In the oppressive heat of midday, my skin blisters. The sun's scalding rays rain down on it without mercy, boiling my flesh like metal in a forge. I'm drenched in sweat, filthy sand, and Terentatek blood. My throat is swollen.

I don't recall the last time I was this thirsty. Hungry, dehydrated, and exhausted, I can bet that I look nothing like a proud Sith right now.

But, at least I've still got the strength to hold onto my precious trophy. The horn that I severed from my kill in the tomb of Marka Ragnos is heavy and has been slowing me down on my hike, but I refuse to leave it behind. It's a symbol of my victory – my triumph, my success. Common sense labels it an unnecessary burden. It's only adding to my problems right now. However, my pride rebels. I must bring it back; I must show everyone what I've accomplished and assert my superiority.

As I walk, the horn digs a deep groove in the sand. Sweat transforms my armor from a comfortable cocoon of safety into itchy and heavy webbing that restricts my movement. I would throw off my jacket if I wasn't so paranoid that something was going to attack me out here. Korriban's open sands and vast plains are no less fraught with danger than its tombs and catacombs. I'm spoiled by the Academy taxis. Free transport between trials and various miscellaneous tasks was something that I always took for granted.

Surprising, for we did not have such luxuries back at Ziost. We trekked everywhere on foot. Here though, no one ever ventures out to the farthest corners of Academy grounds without a taxi. I never really understood how crucial they were to the acolytes in this harsh ecosystem until now. With some relief, I approach a large bit of broken wall and take refuge in the shade for a moment. As I've done every chance I could since I started this hike, I reach into my jacket and pull out my holo communicator.

I've tried calling Tremel over and over again without success. It's almost as though he's fallen off the face of planet. Surely he couldn't be so angry that he's ignoring my calls on purpose. After all, he's the one that has the most to lose in this entire endeavor. When the call fails yet again, I spit out a curse. Useless thing! I grit my teeth and raise my arm, fully prepared to throw my holocom as far away from me as I can. Only a stray bit of logic stops me.

_Something is wrong. Tremel wouldn't abandon you out here without good reason. He's too invested in your success to drop you now. _

As always, my inner voice is correct. Something must have happened to him. That's the only explanation. My thoughts drift, and I shake my head to clear the cobwebs blocking me from thinking clearly.

_You are not helpless. You have the Force - the strongest weapon in the galaxy - as your ally. You are not helpless. _

I look around me at emptiness of the desert - at the unknown number of kilometers I have yet to hike. I look at the sun, the bleak sands, the path that seems endless…I wonder if I'll perish out here in this scorching heat, if they'll find my body curled up around my trophy. Will they whisper about the glory of my kill? Or will they forget me, as all the other acolytes who have perished before me?

_You are_ **not **_helpless! Just focus on the task at hand..._

But I'm so thirsty...if only I could find some water. Any water. I don't care how dirty or stale it is...

It's been this way since I left the tomb. I survived the battle and managed to recover from the side effects of using my powers, but I can still feel the Vortex on the edge of my thoughts - lurking, stalking, reminding of the painful memories I saw during the time I was incapacitated. I thought I'd left the terror of the battle and its chaotic aftermath behind, but I haven't. Periodically, I stop and clutch at my chest as images from this morning return to haunt me. Only hours ago, I was certain that I was going to die. I'm still alive, but a part of me insists that I'm living on borrowed time.

_Or maybe you're already dead and all of this is just a dream..._

The longer I spend in this wretched desert, the more realistic this possibility becomes. I can't afford to break for too long. Dehydration is doing more than disorienting me. Rational thoughts are harder and harder to come by. The hunger, I can bear. Not the thirst. I grow weaker every hour that I'm denied water. My tongue feels so swollen that I can barely swallow what little saliva my body can still produce.

The horn is getting heavier and heavier. At this rate, I won't be able to handle whatever trouble awaits me back home. Fortunately, when I crest over the next dune, I see the main Academy buildings in the distance. They look dark and imposing from here, a black spot that contrasts heavily with its bright surroundings. Heat waves shimmer in front of me as I drag myself towards my destination. Slowly. So slowly…

I focus all of my will into putting one foot in front of the other. It takes nearly another hour before I feel concrete under my boots instead of sand. Just as I'm about to drop my trophy and sigh in relief, someone grabs the back of my jacket and pulls, throwing me off balance. Instantly, I'm alert and ready to defend myself – to _kill_ if necessary.

Who is it? Vemrin? Another one of his lackeys? Impossible. I would have sensed it if someone meant to harm me. Unless my physical weakness has damned me.

As I twist around, I reach into my jacket and start to pull out my lightsaber. It thrums as I activate the switch and prepare to step back into a defensive stance.

_Wait._

The sight of green eyes and an innocent face stops me.

"What are you doing here?" the girl in front of me whispers. My mind reels. I automatically search her arm for one of Vemrin's red bands. This acolyte has no such mark, but she looks vaguely familiar. I examine her from top to bottom. She's taller than me; not unusual, I suppose. Her hair is a dark auburn and tied back into a high ponytail. Her clothes have seen better days. It's clear she hasn't been as fortunate at finding armor as I have. Killing her now would be simple. Her guard is down. She doesn't look like much of a threat.

_Simple. So simple. Like a knife sliding through silk. One less threat. One less enemy - _I reason through the numbing haze that hovers over my thoughts. _Then you can go to your quarters and find some water...take off this itchy armor...clean your trophy…wash off her blood in the shower…_

"You shouldn't be out here," she says, reaching out to touch my shoulder.

"Touch me and lose that arm," I threaten her, barring my teeth.

"Oh," she glances down at her hand and quickly withdraws. I follow her motions, noting the way she favors her right arm, the way she shifts her weight to her left leg. If she attacks, I know which direction to dodge from first. "Is that horn from a beast? I didn't know there were such large creatures around here." The girl blinks at me as though she's waiting for me to speak. I wonder if she senses the dangerous direction my thoughts have taken. Her demeanor is open – almost relaxed. I reach out and try to get a feel for her emotions. No killing intent – just confusion and concern. This gives me pause. Concern? From a fellow acolyte? For the moment, my own killing instinct slides back into remission. Curiosity takes its place. That, or common sense. With how tired I am, I can't really tell the difference.

"Who are you?" My voice comes out sounding weaker than I'd like. My throat is still scratchy. I'm dying for a sip of water. I look towards the part of the building that houses the acolytes' quarters and imagine myself submerging my entire body under a cold shower. The image is so real that I can almost taste the water on my tongue. I sway on my feet. My fantasies are interrupted, however, when I see a group of Dark Honor Guards emerge from the top of the stairs that lead to the Academy proper. They march in formation, their movement suggesting purpose and focus. I've never seen them behave this way.

_Are they coming over here?_

The thought requires the kind of attention that I can't devote to it in my current state. Almost in the same instant that this concern emerges, it recedes back into the abyss of my mind.

"Oh no," the girl whispers. Her gaze moves behind me to look at...what was it that I was just looking at again?

"You should go before they see you here." Her words confuse me. Concern – pure and real – accents every syllable. But, why would an acolyte feel anything but resentment towards another acolyte? Then it hits me. I've met this girl before. She looks familiar. I rummage through my memories, trying to recall where I've seen her before.

"Who are you?" I repeat after clearing my throat.

"You don't remember me," she ventures. There's no surprise in her tone. "I wouldn't expect you to. We met a while ago…on Ziost." The girl shuffles her feet and looks uncertain about something.

"Ziost?" I repeat, urging her to continue. Now I search in a different part of my memories. I would rather not. Ziost held nothing but terrible experiences for me.

"We shared a wall in the acolytes' quarters there. You were on the top bunk, and I was below you." Her words trigger a memory – faint and blurry. I recall training with this girl. There's someone else, too. A tall young man with broad shoulders and a large jaw. What was his name? I frown, wondering why I would even care. My thoughts return to the cold nights on Ziost – to the flimsy bunks and uncomfortable mattresses of the acolytes' quarters. I imagine that my eyes grow misty as I finally recall –

"Thana?" I deactivate my lightsaber and tuck it back into my jacket. She distracts me before I can recall more of our history.

"You _do_ remember," she smiles. The expression does something odd to me, touches a softness in my heart that hasn't been disturbed in a long time. I almost smile back, but stop myself just in time. Since when am I so relaxed around my competition? "Anyway, we need to leave before they see you."

"Who?" I ask, glancing around the courtyard.

"The Dark Honor Guard. They're looking for you. Haven't you heard? The whole Academy is abuzz with the news."

"For me? Why?"

My answer arrives in the form of half a dozen of the Academy's guards. How they managed to sneak up on me is a phenomenon that I blame on my general exhaustion and disorientation. Then again, it's not like I was expecting them to be a threat. The Dark Honor Guard doesn't usually interfere in acolyte activity unless someone from the Dark Council is personally involved.

All of them surround us in less time than it takes to blink. They push Thana aside. She tries to say something in protest, but one of the guards pulls her back. I lose sight of her behind a wall of crimson armor. Each guard is already tall and powerfully built, but with their ornate helmets, they look even larger. Every one of them resembles a red tower that blots out the sun. I can't see their faces through their helmets, so I reach out to try and sense their emotions. As usual, they are stoic and neutral – like living statues. The afternoon sun makes their armor gleam. I saw a group of mutant Tuk'ata massacred by one of these Sith once. Their skills are nothing to scoff at. Underestimating their abilities would be a mistake. So, I maintain a neutral stance. One man, presumably their leader, points his lightsaber at me.

_Put that away before I rip you apart _– The threat hovers on the tip of my tongue. I barely restrain myself from speaking it aloud. The closer they get to me and the more they tighten their unyielding circle of bodies, the angrier I get. I yearn to escape, but no matter how hard I try to pinpoint a weakness in the barricade of flesh and armor that they've made around me, I fail. There are no gaps for me to slip through. Their defense is tight and suffocating. My hand itches to go for my lightsaber, to lash out against them.

_Calm down! Think. This isn't an educational sparring session. These men are highly skilled, and they won't hesitate to kill._

I take a deep breath. Logic dictates that this isn't an ordinary prank arranged by Vemrin and his gang. Nobody has control over the Dark Honor Guard except for the Dark Council and those with equal authority. Coupled with Tremel's mysterious silence, this looks serious. I could very well be in a lot of trouble, and any resistance that I show here could be used against me. This thought takes me back to the unregistered taxi I took nearly half a day ago to reach my trial. Did they know about Tremel arranging that for me? Could this have something to do with that? It's a good thing I've put away my weapon.

"Acolyte, you will follow us," the leader commands.

"On whose authority do you stop me like this?" I demand to know, raising my chin.

"On that of the Dark Council. You will follow."

"And if I don't?" I grind out. I'm so tired that I almost don't care if they lock me up for refusing to obey. At least prisons have water and shade. The guard leader's lightsaber inches closer to my face, but I stand my ground. I sense confusion and hesitation churning within him. Only fools defy the orders of the Council, and he's certain that I don't look like a fool. This man – just like Thana – seems familiar. Something about his presence, the way the Force bends around him is familiar. At last, the realization dawns on me. I've met this leader before, though recalling his name proves impossible. Once, I did a favor for him by bringing him his dead son's effects after finding his body in one of Korriban's tombs. We'd shared a few words. He'd even complimented me on my demeanor. I wonder if one such favor will warrant another.

"If the Dark Council wishes to see me, I will – of course – respectfully obey. However, there is the matter of my appearance. If the Council has no qualms about seeing me in this state," I gesture towards my filthy clothes, "then I will follow you."

My appeal is weak. I know. But maybe – just maybe – something won't go wrong today.

"The Council demands your presence immediately," one of other guards decrees. The leader holds up his hand. The gesture is like a ray of hope. Has he recognized me?

"I won't run," I assure him. I feel him waver and lower my voice so that only he can hear me. "You can escort me to my quarters and stand guard while I change. But, please, I at least need a drink of water."

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It goes against everything I believe in to beg anyone for favors, but doing so this time seemed inevitable. At the very least, showing some humility helped me to convince the leader of the Dark Honor Guard to allow me a brief reprieve. Still, the guards don't allot me much time for luxuries. They escort me to my quarters as I requested, but don't wait long enough for me to change. I only manage to down a flask of water and wipe the sweat and grime off my face with cold water and a towel before the leader grips my elbow and insists that I follow him immediately. I frown, but I obey. This will have to do for now. At the very least, I feel somewhat more capable of rational thought, my senses dharper than they were outside.

The guards march me down long hallways and up into a locked elevator. The leader presses his hand to a special sensor to activate it, pushing me back when I lean in to see how it works. Naturally, I'm anxious. But, I'm also curious. I've never been in this part of the Academy building before. As far as I know, no acolyte of my age and rank has ever been permitted to speak in front of the Dark Council. Though I have yet to know the reason for their summons, I still feel thrilled at the thought. I wonder what the Council is like. They rule our Empire next to the Emperor, so they must be powerful. What will their power over the Force feel like? Will I be able to sense their emotions just like I can with everyone else? I look down at my trophy. Will they be impressed? My voice of reason labels the thought as a childish one.

"We have arrived. Acolyte, you will follow me into the waiting room and remain there until you are summoned. Is that understood?"

"Yes," I nod. The leader walks with me down a smaller corridor, where he opens a set of double doors to what appears to be a large lounge. Before I can say anything else, he shoves me forward and slams the door behind me. I hear the lock click into place. At first, I blink a few times until my eyes adjust to the bright light. I take in the luxurious decor, so different from the sparse furnishings in my own quarters. Obsidian and onyx make up most solid surfaces of desks and sprawling tables. I can see my own reflection in the black marble beneath my feet.

"S'that her? S'that the reason we're in here? She looks horrible," a young woman's voice intones. I start, whirling around to see several pairs of eyes looking at me with a variety of expressions.

"By the Force, child. You're alive…"

Before me sit three people. I don't recognize the blue-skinned Twi'lek girl who spoke first, but I do know the other two. The first is my Overseer – the man I've been inwardly cursing at all day. Tremel kneels on the ground, his hands bound with Force shackles. His face is grey, his demeanor like that of an old man. Beside him sits my ex-officer prisoner, Malavai Quinn, his hands bound tightly behind him. The right side of his face is swelling up from a fresh bruise.

I decide to focus on my Overseer first.

"Tremel?" Now completely confused and even more concerned about my situation, I rush forward and kneel down beside him. I've been storing up a thousand different things to say to this man all day, ranging from questions to the blackest of insults. However, seeing him shackled like this scatters all of those intentions to the four winds. I opt for trying to get information first. "What's going on here? Why are you - "

"No time for questions, girl. Where have you been? Why did you miss the taxi I sent for you?" His tone sets me on edge. He sounds like he's accusing me of something.

"I _didn't_," I reply with more than a little hint of irritation. "I took the taxi that was sent, went to the tomb, and completed the task you gave me." I hold up my trophy. "I've slain the beast and completed my trial."

"It doesn't matter anymore," he says dejectedly. I've never heard him use this tone of voice. Seeing Tremel so remorseful is unnerving. He's not a young man, but he's never looked this frail and old before. His wrinkles look much more pronounced, as though he's aged over ten years in the past day.

"What's going on? Why have they bound you like this? Are you in trouble with the Council?"

"I'd say being dumped here in chains is a strong sign that we're _all_ in trouble," the Twi'lek beside us drawls. I glance at her briefly and note the shock collar on her neck. A slave? Here? And she dares to speak like this to me? She should be falling over herself to grovel at my feet. Her chin is tilted up, though, almost like she finds nothing wrong with saying such bold words in front of her betters. The sight makes me sneer. I hate her already.

"Silence, _slave_. Who do you think you are, speaking to a Sith without permission?" Instead of cowering, the girl rolls her eyes.

"Great, just what I need. More high and mighty cold-blooded killers to tell me what to do."

"How _dare_ you - " Tremel stops me when I start to get to my feet to knock some sense into the petite Twi'lek.

"Not now, child. Listen to me. We don't have much time. Do you remember what we talked about in my office after your trial with the prisoners?"

Tremel's pleas overrides my dark impulse to beat the Twi'lek senseless.

_Focus on the task at hand._

I reign in my anger, sit back down, and try to recall our conversation that day. "Your impassioned speech about the Empire?" I venture.

"Indeed. Remember, _that_ is all that holds any significance here. No matter what the Council tells you or what trials they place before you – remember that you _must_ succeed. Nothing else matters. Not the things they say, not the rules of this place…" he hesitates for a moment. "Not even my life."

"Stop rambling and tell me what's going on here," I demand.

"The Council plans to try us _both_ as traitors to the Empire," he finally admits. His words have more of an effect on me than I dare to show. My blood freezes. Cold sweat breaks out all over my body. Traitors? Treason? The words bounce around inside my head for a moment.

"Why?" I keep my face neutral, suddenly concerned that the Council might be monitoring us. "We haven't done anything wrong," I insist.

"They have evidence to the contrary. I don't know where they found so much to use against us, but…" He brings up his bound hands and grips my sleeve. I suppress the urge to jerk away from his touch and succeed only because his eyes are full of yet another emotion I've never seen him show – fear. "There is _one_ hope. _One_ chance. You must deny all of their accusations. Deny that you had any part in my affairs. You are an acolyte – an obedient lapdog who would do anything to impress me."

I shake my head. "What are you talking about? Lap dog?" I bristle at the implication. "Tremel…I don't understand."

_Of course_ I'll deny any accusations of treason. Nothing that Tremel and I did or planned went so far against protocol except, perhaps, for the recent taxi and the Jedi lightsaber hidden in my jacket. "I've done nothing wrong," I hiss at him and rip my sleeve out of his death grip. "Whatever schemes you've concocted here, old man…they are your own – _not_ mine."

"That's right. Just like that. Use your anger. Make them feel your sincerity. They will try to use me against you. You must abandon me. Do you understand?" Tremel speaks like a man who knows that these words will be his last. I'm not emotionally attached to him, but I admit that seeing him die would be unpleasant. In all the time since I discovered my Force sensitivity, this man alone has treated me with some semblance of decency. He isn't my friend, but I have a feeling that our fates are tied together just the same.

If the Council decides to execute an Overseer, what's to stop them from choosing the same fate for me – a mere acolyte? I think back to my trek through the desert, to the battle before it. I escaped one kind of death only to fall into yet another trap. Hopelessness couples with foreboding to erode all of the strength and calm that I've managed to wrap around myself after the refreshing drink in my room. My shoulders sag. I'm tired. So tired. Naturally, I want to fight against this fate, but I don't know where to start. Facing a tangible enemy is much easier than battling intrigues among those such as the Dark Council. I rake a hand through my hair.

"You sound so certain about the outcome of this trial," I say, acidic dread eating at the walls of my gut.

"I've known that this day would come. I hoped that I could avoid it – that we could both come out of this victors. I had no idea that my plan would backfire like this. I've been beaten at my own game."

"Oh, I get it," the Twi'lek chimes in.

I turn to see that her eyes are full of mischief. How I wish I had the remote from her shock collar in my hand so that I could teach her a lesson in manners.

"You two are like _this_, huh?" She holds up her tied hands in front of her and crosses her fingers. "Two evil Sith, sittin' in a tree, K-I-S-S - "

"If you don't muzzle that mouth, Twi'lek, I swear I'll spill your guts all over this floor," I threaten. The ease with which this girl has gotten under my skin disturbs me.

"Oooh, scary. I'm sooo scared. Look at me shaking," she taunts. My mask almost breaks. Almost. That impulse comes back again – the desire to see her blood staining the beautiful marble.

_You mustn't let this slave unbalance you. Not now, when you're moments away from facing the Dark Council. You must concentrate only on that – only on finding a way out of this mess. _

For now, I decide that killing her wouldn't work to my advantage. I don't know why she's here, but the Council wouldn't bring a mere slave into their presence unless she was important somehow. So, I settle for a smaller punishment. Raising my left hand, I gather Force in my palm and push. The Twi'lek goes flying, hitting the wall on the opposite side of the room with a thud. The blow won't be enough to knock her out, but at least it will be painful. I take a moment to enjoy the agonized sound that escapes her.

"Thank you, My Lord. Perhaps you've bought us at least a few moments of peace," Quinn intones with genuine relief. I'd almost forgotten he was here, too. His candor surprises me, as does the hostility that I that I sense him directing towards the slave girl – a total stranger. My eyes shift to Tremel again. There are more questions that I want to ask him, but I hesitate. I examine the walls and corners around me, looking for cameras. Who knows why they've put us all together in this room? Perhaps they're waiting for one of us to slip up and admit to something. Tremel's already said enough for both of us. My arms drop to my sides. Finally, I turn to the ex-officer. If possible, he looks worse than the last time I saw him.

"And why have _you_ been brought here, prisoner?" I inquire.

"I don't know, My Lord."

Frustrated with his response, I frown. If he doesn't know, then more surprises are coming my way. Not good.

"I was being interrogated by the Inquisitors when the Dark Honor Guard stepped in and said that the Dark Council demanded my presence."

"The Dark Council demanded your presence?" I echo, my tone dripping with disbelief. "You? A prisoner?" I fold my arms across my chest. "And you didn't think this was strange?"

"I was hardly in a position to question my fortune, My Lord," he quips. "I was just glad that they took me away from the tender mercies of the one interrogating me." His lips curve up in a faintest hint of a smile. This doesn't make sense to me. How does this miserable man manage to smile at this ridiculous situation? He should be broken by now – a pathetic lump of flesh that only knows how to shed tears and beg for mercy. Yet here he is – finding humor in a humorless ordeal. I find this completely inappropriate. Perhaps the torture has addled his wits.

_At least he doesn't sound dead like he did that one night. _

When I fail to respond to his words, his smile fades. "Forgive me if I've displeased you, My Lord. I shouldn't have made light of something so serious."

"So when are you going to throw _him_ against a wall for making a joke?" the Twi'lek grumbles from the other side of the room. Fortunately, I'm saved from breaking my earlier resolution not to kill her when the chamber doors open. The leader of the Honor Guard strides in, carrying a pair of Force shackles. I don't have to read his intentions to know that they are meant for me. The hair on the back on my neck stands on end. I've worn those things before. Back on Ziost, wearing them was only one flavor of punishment that the Overseers dealt out. As the man approaches me, I work hard to reign in my panic. My throat constricts and I shudder. I scoot back, a part of me screaming to bolt and put as much distance between myself and those shackles as possible. If he puts those on me, I'll be entirely helpless.

"Since when do you shackle acolytes?" I challenge him, struggling to maintain my composure. The guard's gaze falls to my trophy – discarded and dirty on the floor. Bringing it here seems so foolish now. This whole time, I was worried about my ego and my pride when I should have been concerned for my life.

"The Dark Council has been informed of your success in slaying the beast of Marka Ragnos. They insisted on the use of these as a precaution."

"Ha!" the Twi'lek laughs. "Why don't you just come out and say it? They're afraid of her – " the girl's rant comes to a grinding halt when arcs of red electricity jump out of the collar on her neck and surround her throat. I smell burning skin and watch her writhe on the floor for a moment. "Ouch! Jeez, go easy on that button, will ya?"

I glance at the leader and note that he's holding a small remote. Finally. Some justice.

"Silence, _slave_," the leader commands. When he looks down at me, I sense his intent. I fight to keep my back straight, to keep from flinching, as he leans down and pulls me to my feet. Two other guards flank me from both sides and wrap their meaty hands around my arms to hold me still. This is it – the reason I despise being touched. As soon as I'm held against my will, memories resurface – horrible recollections of cruelty, torture, and pain. I watch the leader bring the shackles closer. His image wavers. My traumatized mind brings back a different scene – one with a small child sobbing at a man's feet as he smiles.

"No. You can't do this," I protest, my voice hoarse. As though sensing my distress, the Force responds in kind. I feel the Vortex inside of me calling to be unleashed.

"You will cooperate," one of the guards demands, tightening his grip until my arm feels like it will break.

"Let go of me," I mumble, feeling my control over the Vortex slipping. Not much time has passed since my last use of my strange powers. I haven't gathered nearly enough fuel for another hurricane. Still, I should have enough to tear at least one of these men apart. Something moves in the corner of my vision. Looking down, I can see black shadows gathering around my hands. Like gossamer, they slide up to wrap around my entire body. The sensation resembles that of being slowly submerged – one centimeter at a time – into a pool of cold water. A third guard rushes over to hold me still. The lights in the room flicker. The leader hesitates, taking a step back.

"Quickly, put the shackles on her, Naman!" the new arrival shouts. Too late. Much too late. I'm already drowning in pleasure at the thought of ripping these men to shreds. In my madness, I imagine that their faces all look like that one man – the tormentor in my memories who stands over the little girl with red hair. I can hear her crying – can hear _myself_ crying in my mind – and it tears at my pride. How dare they? How dare _anyone_ touch me?

"Get your hands off me." It's not a scream. It's not a command. It's something else entirely. The guards try to hold on to me, but a surge of pure Force sends them all flying. Only their thick armor saves them from being crushed as they hit the walls. The room shakes. Some of the decorations hanging on the walls crash to the ground. Mirrors shatter; frames break; tables fall over. The temperature in the room drops until I can see steam wafting from my lips as I breathe. The guards groan as they try to get to their feet. I haven't killed any of them. Yet. My eyes narrow on the leader – the one who wants to shackle me. Somehow, he recovers quicker than the others. When he makes to charge towards me, I prepare to unleash my Vortex. First, I have to hold him still.

_Let's see how he likes being held against his will. _

I don't even have to direct the Force with my hand this time. It responds to my thoughts and slams into the leader's body, pinning him to the wall.

"You must not!" Tremel shouts at me. His plea breaks through whatever trance I'm in. I'm still seething with rage and hate, but I turn to look at him. I see the Twi'lek and Quinn lose color in their faces. It's the blue of Quinn's eyes that catches my attention now. He's scooting away from me.

"And why not?" I hear myself reply in a foreign voice. "Are you afraid? That's good. You should be..."

"You must not do this now," Tremel repeats with more enthusiasm, holding up his bound hands. "Control your anger. Control your emotions. Remember what I taught you. Remember your purpose." Why doesn't he cower like the others? Why doesn't he just give up? In those shackles, he's as good as Force-blind. He can't possibly understand anything. Yet, he presses on. His eyes look right into mine. It's enough to give me pause. I feel the Force holding the guard leader in place recede. I don't hesitate for long, but my brief moment of indecision is enough for someone as skilled as the leader of the Dark Honor Guard.

I cry out when he slams bodily into my side and throws me to the ground. I scramble to my feet and raise my hand to try and lash out at him with Force, only to gasp when he clamps the shackles around my wrists. It takes all of my resolve to keep my knees from buckling beneath me. A heavy weight settles on my chest; an iron band constricts my lungs. My vision grows blurry. All the colors around me seem to turn grey. Breathing becomes nearly impossible. The room grows smaller and smaller, collapsing on me until I feel like an ant trapped inside a box. The Vortex that has been feeding me strength and power sputters and fades.

The guard stares down at me through the black opening in his helmet. He looks even bigger to me now – even more threatening. When I reach out to sense his emotions, I find…nothing. The shackles are locking the Force – my only ally – away from me. As it slips out of my grasp, I rush to recapture it. Doing so is as difficult as catching a squirming fish. The energy writhes, dodges, and avoids me, running through my fingers like water. In the end, I'm left with a vast emptiness in my soul – a scar much like a meteor crater in the earth. The leader of the Dark Honor Guard sees me sway on my feet. He grips my elbow and pulls me towards the door.

"Take care of the others," he commands the rest of the guards. Most of them are still trying to pick themselves up off the floor. "I will lead this one to the Council Chambers." I quickly lose sight of the others when he shoves me into the hallway and slams the door behind us. He grips me by the front my jacket and brings my face closer to his, lowering his voice. "I don't know what your intentions are, and I don't care. Try that again and next time I _will _take your life, benefactor or not."

"Benefactor?" I ask, my voice weak and frail. I tremble in his grasp. This hallway is so small – so narrow. It's even harder to breathe here, and the man before me looks terrifying in that armor. I have no doubt that he could crush me now. All it would take is a flick of his wrist and my neck would snap.

_And there's nothing you can do to stop him._

"You are fortunate. Someone on the Dark Council has taken a personal interest in you. These shackles restrain you for now, but when the times comes, you must break free of them."

"When the times comes?" I try to keep the excitement out of my voice. To think that someone as prestigious as a Dark Council member has taken note of me seems unreal. Then his other words sink in. Break free? How is that possible when I can't summon even a shred of my normal powers?

"You will know," he replies in a low monotone. A ray of hope shines through the pall of darkness that's settled over my demeanor. I squash it down, refusing to believe that the guard's words are anything more than a sick game. For all I know, someone out there wants to see me even more miserable than I am now. What better way to break me than by giving me false hope?

The leader drags me down another set of hallways and stops in front of a massive set of double doors. I can hear voices echoing within. My heart jumps into my throat. I can't sense anything beyond – not even a tremor of emotion or presence. I'm about to walk into this room entirely blind. Whatever advantage the Force may have given me in this situation is gone now. Perhaps it's better that the leader doesn't hesitate. He knocks on the door and opens it, pushing me inside. The shackles have robbed me of nearly everything that made me who I was. I am no longer a powerful, graceful, and omnipotent Sith. I am a pathetic woman who stumbles into the room and falls to her knees. The shame is unbearable. I want to hide under a rock and never show my face to anyone again.

Behind me, I hear the others brought in. As I push myself up to stand, Tremel is marched past me. At last, I'm able to focus enough to get my bearings. I examine the room and the faces of those who would judge me. The extravagance of this chamber is lost upon me. Instead, I think of how enormous these walls look – of how tiny I am in comparison. Just like the lounge and the hallway, these walls make me feel nauseous and claustrophobic, as though I've been shoved into a dark cave without any openings for air. The Council members themselves all wear masks to hide their faces – some fancy, others frightening. Even without the Force, I can sense the tension and power in the room. These sensations press down like iron weights upon my lungs. Just like I did with the Terentatek this morning, I feel fate shift beneath my feet.

"Overseer Tremel," one of the Council members begins. As he stands from his ornate chair, his dark robes shift and shimmer in the light. His mask is blood red, carved into a grotesque face with four eyes and a mouth full of fangs. It changes his voice, makes it echo in the room. "You and your apprentice have been brought here on the high charge of treason. How do you plead?"


	5. ACT I: Chapter 5

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**STAR WARS:**

**The Amaranthine Wrath**

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**ACT I:**

**Chapter 5**

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"Overseer Tremel," one of the Dark Council members begins. "You and your apprentice have been brought here on the high charge of treason. How do you plead?" His blood red eyes burn through the mask he wears like a pair of flaming orbs in the night. Before the steps leading up to his seat stands the leader of the Dark Honor Guard. I remember one of his subordinates calling him Naman. His body is rigid as stone, standing vigil, ready both to defend his masters and to enforce their iron will.

"I am guilty, but my apprentice is not," Tremel declares. His voice is stronger than it was in the lounge. No sign remains of the weary old man. "She was merely a puppet in my game and holds no responsibility for my actions." I watch my Overseer square his shoulders and straighten his spine. He raises his chin, meeting the Dark Council's accusatory stares with pursed lips.

This is true pride. _Sith_ pride – the sort of thing I should be aware of within my own demeanor at all times. I wonder how he is managing to retain this feeling despite the shackles on his wrists, how he always finds the strength to fight for the cause he believes in despite the odds often stacked against him. Sith superiority, Sith purity - the Empire. I've only ever scratched the surface of these ideals. Perhaps it would help if I had such a cause myself. Maybe if I believed in something so strongly, I could be more like him.

"You shield your apprentice," another Darth intones. His mask is as black as his robes, the features decorated with ornate patterns of gold etched on onyx. "But, you are a fool if you think that we will simply take your word for it." I can't sense his emotions or see the expression on his face, but I can tell that the words are spoken with disgust. To a Sith – to a Darth, or even a Lord – an apprentice is a tool to advance towards power. He believes that Tremel should toss me aside and lay all the blame for his blunders at my feet. In fact, I'm almost certain that what Tremel is doing is unprecedented. I've never heard of an Overseer shielding an acolyte with such resolve.

"It isn't that we won't take his word for it, Mortis," the red-masked Darth says. "It is that we _cannot_."

"Explain, Ravage," Darth Mortis commands. At least I'm learning to identify these men. With names, they seem less unreachable somehow. Less menacing. I try to imagine that there is a face behind each mask, a person rather than a remorseless judge.

"There is a mound of evidence here that incriminates them _both_." Darth Ravage picks up a black data pad from the armrest of his chair and proceeds to read off of a list from the screen. He turns first to me then to Tremel. "These are your crimes and the evidence we have been provided. First, treason to the Empire. Second, the showing of favoritism to an acolyte. Third…" With each new charge, my hopelessness grows until his voice becomes a drone in the back of my mind. He's naming off unrelated details that, when spun together in a certain order, seem to twist into a tapestry that tells a damning tale.

The fact that mine and Tremel's holo coms share a single frequency, our private lessons in melee combat with instructors flown in from off world, the fact that I've been placed in my own separate quarters away from the other acolytes, a credit stick – mine supposedly – that is determined to be linked to one of Tremel's personal accounts…the evidence seems endless. They've even managed to twist our late night meetings in his office into something perverse and shameful. I close my eyes and retreat deep into my thoughts.

This reality is the last place I want to be. I try to go to the one place I've always felt safe – the center of my Vortex. Here, there is always plenty of hate, resentment, anger, and rage. These emotions are the source of my strength. They empower me. However, my connection to this place is nearly nonexistent right now. The damned shackles have severed even this most intimate of bonds. I submerge myself deeper into the void, desperate to make any kind of connection with the Force. It's there, just out of my reach. As I strain to get closer to it, I feel it calling to me. Its voice is as distant as the horizon.

I imagine that I stand on the edge of a great chasm. Beneath me swirls a dark, ravenous abyss. If I can cross this void, I'll be able to reach the Force – and my power – on the other side. But, the shackles keep me restrained. I try to analyze their hold on me, to see if I can break it. Naman implied that I would be able to do so when the time was right. As far as I know, this was a bad joke at my expense. But, if there's anything I've learned, it's that the Force grants infinite possibilities to its wielders. For all I know, the belief that these shackles can't be broken is just another form of propaganda meant to subjugate those held by them.

_That's right. You've proven that you can fight your fate. You've proven that you can reshape your destiny. What's stopping you now?_

Fear, of course. Though the emotion usually enhances my abilities, without the Force it has become my nemesis. I'm afraid of trying to cross the chasm before me; I'm afraid of falling; I'm afraid of failure. All I can do now is rail against my bonds and plead for the Force to come to my aid. Briefly, I consider using my powers to try and break out of the shackles. I don't know if it's even possible, but I'm sure that I can summon up enough emotion to trigger the Vortex somehow. If I really try, that is. If I can stop being so afraid.

_Too much of a risk. You don't want that on your head right now._

I don't like it, but I have to agree with my logic and reason. I still don't know how my earlier attack on the members of the Dark Honor Guard will be judged. Perhaps I've already doomed myself. Or, perhaps I'm just waiting for this charade to be over. For now, I have no way of escape. I look at the chasm once more before I allow the vision of it to recede back into my subconscious. As I float back up from the darkness, I hear Darth Ravage's voice again. When will he mete out my judgment? This waiting is painful. Each word grinds on my frayed nerves. I hate this place. I hate these shackles. I hate the obsidian walls of this room which seem to be getting smaller and smaller by the second. I hate the marble that so perfectly reflects the image of my helplessness.

The doors open behind me, a sharp nerve-wracking sound. I turn to look behind me and see half a dozen of the Dark Honor Guard file into the chamber. The man in front is carrying my trophy – the Terentatek horn. Why are they bringing it in here? What could they possibly need it for? My train of thought is derailed when I see another figure enter directly behind the guards. It's another Darth, but this one isn't wearing a mask. Crimson eyes pierce through me as they look me up and down. This man is a Pureblood, his ruby red skin gleaming darker than the guards' armor. My heart skips a beat when his lips shift into an arrogant smile. I want so desperately to reach out and feel for his thoughts, his emotions, his motives. But, I can't. When I try, the Force does not respond. Who is this man? Why is he smiling at me?

"Vowrawn," the Darth at the back of the room says. "As usual, you are late." He is addressing the new arrival. I file the name away for later reference.

"Fashionably late, Ravage," the Pureblood drawls. He gestures dismissively in the air. "You know me."

_A Dark Council member?_ – my mind reels. Now that I know this, everything makes sense – the man's fancy armor, his composure as he parades through the chamber, the casual way he addresses Darth Ravage, and the shudder that ghosts down my spine when he passes by me. I wonder if all Force-blinds feel this way when in the presence of a powerful Force user.

The other Council members shift in their seats. Why do I get the feeling that they aren't happy to see this man? His presence captivates my entire focus, so much so that I nearly fail to see the second man following him to his seat. Our eyes briefly meet as he walks by. When Darth Vowrawn sits down, this man stops on the edge of the steps, standing in a pose very similar to the one Naman took at the foot of Darth Ravage's seat. He's human, shorter in stature than Vowrawn, and dressed in simpler armor.

"This trial is almost over," Darth Ravage decrees.

"Is it?" Vowrawn asks. I can tell his surprise is fake. "And here I thought that I heard you still reading off the charges through the door."

"You were mistaken," Darth Ravage insists. "I was just about to read off the sentence."

"Let me guess. You want to execute the girl and the Overseer both." The room falls silent. Vowrawn paused on purpose. "I am here to clear up a few minor details. This child is only guilty of a single thing – total and complete obedience to her true Master." He leans back, his eyelids drooping over his magnificent red eyes. He looks bored, as though he's discussing the weather. On any other occasion, his arrogance would have irritated me. For now, though, I give him the benefit of the doubt. It sounds like he's defending me.

"To her Master?" Ravage looks between me and Tremel. "You mean the Overseer."

"To her _true _Master," Vowrawn repeats with a smirk. "Lord Qet, please step forward and explain." He gestures to the second man. The moment his name is mentioned, Qet tears his gaze away from me and bows to the Council.

"What does your apprentice possibly have to say on the matter?" another one of the Council members asks. So that's what he is. Not a bodyguard. An apprentice.

"Well, Vengean, if you listen perhaps you'll find out," Vowrawn grins. Something about that grin disturbs me. I've always imagined Council members to be serious. Yet this man's demeanor suggests a certain candor that sets him apart from his peers. I glance between him and Lord Qet.

_You'll know_ – Naman's voice echoes in my mind. Suddenly, I'm filled with a rush of hope. I'd thought he was being cruel, but what if his words actually held truth to them? What if this man, Darth Vowrawn, was the mysterious "benefactor" that Naman spoke of?

_If that's true, then you need to focus. Be ready for anything._

Lord Qet moves to stand in front of me and crosses his arms over his chest. "This girl is my apprentice. She has been since before she arrived on Korriban. Everything that's transpired in the past weeks has been a set-up created for a single purpose – to root out _this_ traitor to the Empire and to the Sith code." My heart sinks when he points to Tremel. The Council members all lean forward in their seats. Darth Mortis strokes the side of his mask, observing the situation without saying a word.

"You dare spew such lies?" Darth Ravage challenges. "It can't be." He turns to the only man in the room who dares to smile in the face of the Council's obvious anger. "Vowrawn, is this true?" I struggle to absorb what just happened. Vowrawn and his apprentice, men who I just met several moments ago, are lying to the Dark Council to protect me.

"Naturally. Lord Qet would never lie about such a serious matter, and neither would I."

"You," Tremel suddenly cuts in. He's glaring at me. If looks could kill, I'm sure I'd be in grave danger right now. "You _betrayed_ me? After all I did for you..." He sounds so convincing, his voice low and full of hatred. "You were serving another Master all along?" His eyes fill with disgust. I try not to remember the acolyte that I killed in my room. His eyes were just like Tremel's. I push against the nausea in my gut, trying not to let those memories control my emotions. But, I've never seen my Overseer so disappointed in me. The one man who I thought could be my ally now stares at me like I'm his most hated enemy. It hurts. I don't want it to, but it does. I shouldn't care. This is my chance for freedom.

_Even if it's all a charade. A game. A lie. You must persevere._

That's when I finally understand. The pieces come together. Tremel once told me that the world of Sith was much like a game of strategy. Everything is about moves and countermoves. Each action that we take is either offensive or defensive. I didn't want to think about it too much back then. Now, however, I see it as clearly as I understand the role I'm meant to play. At last, the full extent of Tremel's determination comes to light. His insanity. His sacrifice. This knowledge bolsters me like no emotion ever has. I'm ashamed of how easily I fell into despair. Just like my Overseer did at the beginning of the trial, I straighten my spine and raise my chin. Moves and countermoves – like an elaborate dance. Time to show him I'm worth it.

"You really thought I was loyal to you?" I sneer at him. "Please. Compared to my Master, you are _nothing_."

"All the things I taught you, all the time I spent on you and everything I risked for you…all for nothing?" His voice is hoarse now, ringing with disbelief and shock. I need to try harder, be more convincing.

"I've been wanting to kill you for so long, Tremel. Serving as your pet acolyte was torture."

_That's right. Just like that. Use your anger. Make them feel your sincerity –_my teacher's words mean so much more now. They lend me the support and inspiration that I need. I don't know if the shackles can stop other Force users from feeling my emotions, but I don't care. I try to summon up all the anger and disdain that I can muster.

"Apprentice," Lord Qet intones, an easy smile relaxing his features into an expression of amusement. "You can stop pretending that that _toy_," he points to the Force shackles on my wrists, "…has any kind of effect on you. It's time the Council knew the truth of your abilities." His eyes flash. In that same instant, I feel the shackles around my wrists deactivate. The Force rushes back to envelop me. My strength, power, and clarity of thought return with it. I realize that my Vortex has been fighting to return to me all this time. I can sense its desperation, its anger, its palpable fury. It is an undeniable part of me. Without it, I am nothing. With it -

"Show them you are _Sith_," Vowrawn commands. My pride cocoons me in warmth and vigor. As if I need his permission. I don't need anyone's approval or otherwise to mark me as a superior being. I take a deep breath and pull my hands apart, tearing the metal of the shackles like paper. The emptiness in my soul fills with life. The pain of my wounds fades away. I pull my Vortex towards the edge of my awareness, thrilled to feel it churning with renewed vigor.

_More. Give me more. It isn't enough._

It yearns to be unleashed, to feed off my enemies. I imagine tearing off the Council's masks, imagine with a smile how they would look with their faces twisted in horror at the sight of my abilities. Oh, how magnificent it would feel to see the Dark Council bowing before me, to see the Dark Honor Guard quake at my feet.

_More. More hatred. More darkness._

I see my reflection in the marble of the floor. I am no longer a quaking girl, terrified for her life. My eyes are glowing red with power, my body surrounded by shadows. The walls shiver. Loose objects set on various stands around the room tremble and fall to the ground. As the Vortex draws closer to the surface, I tilt back my head and fight to contain it.

"Such raw power," Darth Ravage whispers behind his mask.

"Broke through the shackles..." another Darth says. I sense all of their emotions now. It's a spectrum that radiates between surprise, awe, confusion, and one more.

Dread.

"Vowrawn, where did you find such…" Darth Ravage trails off as a tremor shakes the ground. My Vortex is fighting me now, demanding that I take revenge for the shame these men have caused me. It fills my head with images of me stumbling before them, of me cowering, of me lowering my head. The disgrace of it all in retrospect is unbearable. I grit my teeth. Despite my best efforts, I can barely hold the Vortex in check. The normal voice of reason that helps me through most tough situations screams in my ears, reminding me that Tremel sacrificed himself so that I would remain hidden. I may be ashamed, I may want revenge, but I _must_ honor his sacrifice. I pull back my rage and try to soothe the storm in my chest.

"You sound surprised, Ravage," Vowrawn smirks. "Yet you know that this Sith single-handedly defeated the beast of Marka Ragnos." He points to my trophy, still held by one of the Dark Honor Guard. As though on cue, the man holds up the enormous horn for all to see. Ravage takes a step back and sits down in his chair. He pulls off his mask, finally revealing his face. He's younger than I expected. His skin is smooth and unblemished, sporting little sign of the Dark Side's corruption.

Unlike Darth Vengean. The man's face is pale as a cadaver's. Black rings circle his eyes and purple veins fan out to frame his temples. His lips are a sickly shade of blue. I wonder if I will look like that one day, if this Vortex will devour me like the Dark Side has devoured this man.

"There was evidence that this claim was false," another Darth points out.

"What evidence, Jadus?" Vowrawn challenges. "An unregistered taxi? You are head of the Sphere of Intelligence. Think. The taxi had to be unregistered. I had to maintain our deception for as long as possible. All to reveal Tremel as a traitor."

"Why did you not come to me for such matters?" Darth Jadus demands. "This is my area of expertise. I could have sent an Agent. Why this deception?"

"You're just angry that you've wasted your afternoon," Darth Vowrawn replies. His flippant remark earns a few sighs from the Council. "And, honestly, I've been so preoccupied with settling certain affairs in the jungles of Dromund Kaas that I needed something to relieve my boredom." He looks pointedly at Darth Vengean. The latter remains unfazed, but there's no way that I can miss the friction between them.

"Then what about the others?" another Council member insists. His armor is designed in such a way that it looks like he has spikes protruding from his shoulders. "The court-martialed officer flown in for the Sith's trial and the Twi'lek pirate woman that was found trying to steal from our sacred tombs?"

"Darth Marr," Lord Qet begins, "I can explain that as well."

"No," Ravage interrupts him. His eyes move to me. "I want this _Sith_ to tell us."

_He doesn't believe you_ – I realize. _Convince him. Earn your freedom._

But, what should I say? I haven't the slightest clue about either prisoner, really. The only thing I know about Quinn is that he has enemies in the higher ranks of the military. I frantically run through what I can remember reading about him in the files Tremel gave me, but nothing comes to mind that might help me slip out of the noose Darth Ravage is trying to hang around my neck. And the Twi'lek…

"I'm not a pirate," she chimes in, catching my attention. "Don't lump me together with that trash. What we did wasn't always legal, but jeez…callin' me a pirate is going too far." She sounds much too cheerful for someone who is about to be sentenced to death. I see the leader of the Dark Honor Guard reach for the shock collar remote at his hip and hold up my hand to stop him. Without hesitation, I reach out and crush her throat with the Force. She gags and sputters, clawing at her skin. I give it a moment, watching in satisfaction as she contorts in agony. When I feel her lose consciousness, I let go. She drops to the ground, senseless.

"That creature is my slave," I reveal. She may be impertinent and inferior, but she's given me at least one idea. "She was assigned a part to play in all this, and I'd say she played it well. Wouldn't you, Master?" I glance at Lord Qet, hoping he'll play along. His smile is genuine, albeit filled with cruelty. His eyes rove over the slave's prone form. I wonder what will become of the Twi'lek once all of this is over. I sense the way his gaze lingers, filling with desire. Something inside of me rebels, but I push it aside.

"Indeed," he confirms. "She was bait for the traitor."

"And the officer?" Darth Ravage prompts. My mind rushes to come up with some kind of credible back story. I focus my attention on Quinn, try to read his body language. His eyes are burning with unspoken syllables. I can tell he understands what's going on, and I hope that he won't speak out against anything that I'm about to say. Both our lives are on the line.

"It's difficult to explain in a few words, My Lord," I say, keeping my voice neutral and even.

"Try," Darth Ravage commands, reminding me of my very first interaction with Quinn. Did I sound like he does now? Did Quinn feel this same fear? This same panic?

"I, myself, wasn't fully aware of everything that my Master had planned for this man," I go on to say. Ravage frowns. His eyes narrow in suspicion. Fortunately, I am indirectly saved by Darth Mortis.

"We were told that this man is an Imperial defector," he explains. "That Tremel brought him here for your trials to spare him from execution seeing as he was working for him the entire time."

_Good. Something you can use._

I hesitate, for what I'm about to say will implicate Quinn in a way that his career may never recover from.

_Do it. It's your only chance to save yourself. If you stumble now, there is no hope._

"Well?" Darth Ravage urges me to continue, clearly impatient. I steel myself for my reply –

"You were not misled on this point, My Lords. This man was, indeed, planning on defecting. He has been serving under Tremel for some time. My Master knew that he has enemies in the Military. We arranged for his court martial knowing that Tremel would try to rescue him. Though, we did not anticipate that he would be brought to Korriban. That part was simply good fortune."

"Is this true, soldier?" Darth Mortis asks the ex-officer directly.

I don't see Quinn rebel. I _feel_ it. His eyes darken to a blue-black hue and his face flushes with shame. I can tell that being accused of treason is truly insulting and disgraceful to him. Though I cannot afford the luxury of pity right now, I feel sorry for him nevertheless. I wonder how we must look to him, playing our power games while the Empire fights a cold war with the Republic. I wonder if we seem selfish and shallow. I'm not sure why it would bother me at all, but the thought that I've just lost his respect irritates me. I watch him nod to confirm my words and hope that he understands that this is for the greater good.

"Fine, then," Darth Ravage cuts in. "In that case, we must decide what is to be done with the Overseer."

"A duel," Darth Vowrawn suggests, "to the death. Between the traitorous Master and his false Apprentice." I can't stop myself from gasping and turning my gaze to the Pureblood. What he's implying is the epitome of cruelty. He knows we are both innocent. He knows that Tremel and I have a connection. Yet he insists that I kill him with my own hands.

_Think! It's better this way. You should not have formed a connection in the first place. As a Sith, this is the final lesson you must learn. If anything, he's teaching you what Tremel failed to emphasize._

My voice of reason is, as always, right on target. I know that this will serve to convince the Council once and for all of our deception. I'll truly be safe if I go through with this. But…I can't help remembering the acolyte in my bedroom again. The way he died hating me. His eyes were just like Tremel's are now. I should forget him – throw both him and Tremel out of my memories. It is the Sith way. It is our sacred Code.

"What say you to this, Sith?" Darth Marr grumbles in my direction. I sense his impatience and irritation. For a moment, I consider Vowrawn's earlier accusation – that the Council is frustrated because they feel they've wasted an afternoon. Thinking that they consider this situation nothing more than a hindrance to a productive day bothers me. I try not to let this show when I reply –

"It will be an honor, My Lords, to end the life of a traitor before the esteemed Dark Council." And with that, I seal mine and Tremel's fate.

"Give her a lightsaber, then," Darth Vowrawn commands. Lord Qet bows his head and tosses me his. From his place in front of Darth Ravage's seat, Naman unstraps his own saber and throws it to Tremel. Another guard steps forth and removes Tremel's shackles.

"Not a lightsaber. Give him a war blade," Darth Vengean suggests with a cruel smirk.

"No," I insist. Everyone turns to me. "I've been wanting to spill his blood for too long. I will fight him on even ground to prove, once and for all, that I am superior." It's the only courtesy I can give my old mentor in this situation - the only mercy I can show.

"Spoken as a true Sith," Darth Vowrawn proclaims. "Any last words, Tremel?"

"I will fight you with everything I have. Do not think of holding back, you _traitor_," he growls at me. I feel his hatred across the room. No matter what he is to me, in battle this man will be a Sith. He will feed off of his hatred and emotions. As such, he means what he says. A part of me thrills at the challenge.

"Very well," Darth Vowrawn nods. "Begin."

_Concentrate on the fight before you. Think of nothing else._

No need for warnings. Thanks to my adrenaline, I'm already in full battle mode. My eyes run over my enemy, noting his weaknesses. He holds his saber in his left hand. The sleeve there shifts and I notice a bruise on his wrist. We circle each other like predators on the field, ready to respond to the slightest hint of attack. When he turns, I see him put more weight on his right foot, almost as though it's painful for him to pivot on his heel. Interesting. All around me, I sense the Council's presence, especially Darth Ravage's. He is still suspicious of me, and I'm sure he's watching for me to hesitate. For the moment, I tune him out. I will honor Tremel by giving him my full focus in this fight.

In the time that I've been here, I've trained with this man one on one enough times to know his abilities. The trouble with that is, he knows my limits too. I've never fought him at my full strength, and he's always held back during our sparring sessions. It's time to see how he earned his position as an Overseer. At this point, I'm glad for this chance to focus on something other than any regrets I may have about the way things have turned out. I'm glad to be able to focus on something solid rather than a plethora of insecurities. I welcome this fight, as does my opponent.

His first strike comes at blinding speed – a blow to my right side. Not good. That's the side that was burned in the tomb. I feel my charred flesh stretch and pull as I twist to avoid his weapon. It was this man that taught me how to see the smallest of weaknesses in my opponents. He's already taken note of one of mine. His continues his assault with a flurry of strikes that I struggle to block with a single saber.

"I thought you wouldn't hold back," he taunts me. "Come, now. Fight me at your full power." Anyone else will think that this is just a dare, a desperate man's last words. However, I know Tremel well enough to spot the way he looks at the front of my jacket, the way his eyes flicker to the hidden compartment in the armor there.

"Alright, then, _old man_!" I bring up my foot and kick him in the chest, pooling Force there to send him reeling backwards. Using the momentum, I flip back and reach into the front of my armor. By the time I land on my feet, I'm holding two light sabers – one green and one red.

"What's this?" Darth Vengean hisses in displeasure. I hear Lord Qet chuckle.

"A little trophy my Apprentice took from a hapless Jedi. I can imagine it's been a harrowing experience having to use a war blade in the Academy when she's so used to a lightsaber." I don't look at him. I can't afford to. But, now I know who left this thing in the taxi for me.

The planning all of this must have taken makes my head spin. This wasn't arranged overnight. One doesn't gain the support and backing of a Dark Council member in such a short span of time. This realization leaves only one conclusion. Tremel tempted Vowrawn with something big, something that will help him with his power games. As far as I know from history, Darth Vowrawn has kept his position longer than any of these men aside from Darth Marr. He didn't accomplish this feat without being clever. But, what did Tremel tempt him with? The only thing I can think of is that he told him about my hidden abilities.

"Better," Tremel says as he jumps towards me again. We clash even more furiously this time, parrying each other's attacks and trying to gain an advantage. When I reach around with my green saber to force pressure on his injured heel, he strikes at my weakened side and forces me to retreat. When I seek to slam the hilt of my weapon against the bruise on his wrist, he pushes against my chest with Force and sets me off balance. Sparks fly from our blades, a few hitting my cheek and burning the skin there. This man isn't as fast as I am, but he has the advantage of incredible physical strength and stamina. I've already begun to sweat with exertion, but he looks as though he has yet to be winded.

He stands firm in his Soresu form while I try to hack at his defenses with my more agile Ataru. In this, he has the advantage. Soresu costs minimal effort to maintain and is highly defensive. I know that the moment I tire out and begin to leave openings between attacks, he'll switch to Shien and try to overpower me. I don't have long to consider this, for he does just as I predict. The shift is subtle, but I've practiced with him so many times that I'm able to react quickly and adjust my own style. The next time I try to slice at his arm, he deflects and jumps backwards, spinning his saber around and holding it behind him, blade facing up. It's a classic posture of Shien. I grit my teeth, too tense to wipe the sweat off my brow. To my supreme fury, Tremel looks as calm and collected as he did before we began our duel. Unwilling to give in, I adjust my own stance and leap forward.

Instead of avoiding or stopping my attacks with small motions and a tight defense, Tremel begins to counterattack after every block - the spirit and purpose of Shien form. I recognize, then, that I can still use Ataru to my advantage. I just have to move faster and attack with more intensity. My focus narrows on Tremel's hands, at the rhythm with which he's blocking me then countering. I attack once. Observe. Then again. Observe. In a few moments, I count the milliseconds of time between each counter and know what I have to do. I've been hesitating to call upon too much Force to assist me because I've been afraid of losing control over the Vortex. However, I know that unless I do this I'll tire out and lose this battle.

More than one instructor has commented in the past on my natural talent and skill with the Ataru form. My small stature makes me an ideal practitioner. When using this particular form, I was told to become the essence of aggression. I must be a blur for my opponent; I must use the Force to jump higher, to hit harder, to extend my reach beyond typical human capacity. As I crouch down and shift my stance, I embody all of these principles. I call Force into every one of my limbs. I jump up and spin, whirling both sabers in a series of vicious slashes that Shien cannot hope to counter. Before that move is finished, I already progress into the next. I don't hesitate. When I feel my foot touch the ground, I push back and flow into another jump, twirl, or arc. I use the walls; I use the ceiling; I use any surface that will add to my momentum. The combination of Force and focus grants me a haze of fury in which I submerge myself entirely. I don't care where I land or who gets in my way. All I can see is my opponent. All I can feel is the ebb and flow of Force as it surrounds me and grants me incredible speed.

What begins as a flowing river of red and green quickly turns into a raging torrent.

Fast.

Then faster.

Then even _faster_.

Tremel struggles now, barely able to keep up with my onslaught. It's still not enough. I can sink deeper into the darkness. Another strategy comes to mind. Juyo form – a risk that I might just be willing to take. I don't have the same mastery over it as I do over Ataru, but the moves would certainly catch Tremel off guard. This form is not taught at the Academy, for it's considered to be advanced material that surpasses the abilities of the average acolyte. Tremel, however, in his desire to push me forward faster, flew in special instructors from off-world to help me learn the style. He did not practice it with me, and therefore won't know the first thing about what I'm going to do with it. The idea appeals to me so much that I put it into action on my next attack. I still jump and spin, but I've completely abandoned all of my defense for direct and nearly unavoidable slashes. As I thought, my daring catches Tremel off guard. I feint a blow to his skull, but at the last moment bounce back and fall to the ground, rolling and slashing at the same time.

My saber burns through flesh, and I relish the thought of my victory. The Vortex instantly picks up on my aggression and killing instinct. I realize that I've let go of my barrier and rush to close it off. But, it's too late. Some of the energy from the Vortex leaks through. Just like it did back before the trial in the lounge, the temperature in the room drops drastically. I lose sense of my surroundings. My vision tunnels and narrows down upon Tremel, now lying on the ground. I severed his legs, and at some point between standing up from my roll and turning around, I cut off one of his arms. He sputters at he lies there, helpless, at my feet.

"I die…for…the Sith...Empi…re…" I watch him breathe his last, still trapped in a veil of numb apathy. I can't feel remorse at his death – not pleasure, either. In fact, I can't feel anything. A part of me understands that something is wrong with me, but the dominant portion of my will doesn't care. The Vortex bangs against the walls of my mental barriers, begging to be released. It whispers that there isn't enough blood, that the black marble under my boots would look even more beautiful if I soaked it with more crimson.

"Incredible," someone whispers above me. I look up, still feeling nothing, and see Darth Marr stand up from his seat. "I have not witnessed such a battle in many decades. Your mastery of not only one but two lightsaber forms cannot be contested." His words carry a lot of weight. I can sense that his acknowledgement of my abilities has caught the interest of the other Council members.

"The Force is strong with you, child," Darth Mortis says with a nod of approval.

"Most impressive. The Dark Side favors you," Darth Jadus agrees.

"How did it feel to cut him down?" Vowrawn asks. The smile is gone from his face. "You know he saw you as family."

"He was a traitor to the Empire," I reply. At least, I think it's me. I'm not entirely sure that I'm in control of my body any more. In fact, everything feels very far away, as though I'm watching the scene unfold through a stranger's eyes. The Vortex is responsible; I'm sure of it. However, all I can do for the moment is use all of my willpower to keep the rest of it from spilling past my barriers.

"You mask your emotions well," Vowrawn observes.

"You have claimed a victory here, Sith. You should be proud. Killing an Overseer – a Sith Lord – is no small feat," Darth Marr nods.

"I am Sith, but I have a name," the stranger inside of me says. "I am Seraphine Fireborne." I sense the Council's confusion at my admission.

"Why tell us your name in such a fashion?" Vowrawn asks. I don't look away from Darth Marr when I reply. Though Ravage is the one that has been speaking the most during this farce of a trial and Vowrawn helped make this possible, I sense that Marr has the most power among them. It is this man that I must appeal to now. I depress the switches on both of my sabers and reply –

"I tell you my name so that when you forget the identity of the corpse on the ground, you will remember who made you feel dread on this day."


	6. ACT I: Chapter 6

**A quick note to my readers:**

Several people have PM'ed me with messages saying that they aren't able to post reviews on the chapters. Because I'm reposting this story, it's possible that the system will not allow those who have reviewed certain chapters a year or so ago to review again. I'm sorry about this inconvenience, but I wanted to encourage you guys to PM me if that's the case. PM's are just as awesome and amazing at inspiring me and helping me find the confidence to keep posting and writing this.

For those that were able to review and for those who have PM'ed me so far - thank you so much! Without your support, I wouldn't have the courage to keep writing at all.

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**STAR WARS:**

**The Amaranthine Wrath**

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**ACT I:**

**Chapter 6**

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_**Wake up.**_

_I open my eyes to unfamiliar surroundings. It's cold here. Freezing. My skin is covered in goose bumps, and I shiver. Every time I exhale, steam escapes from my lips. Silence stalks the air, capturing any and all sound in its claws and swallowing it whole. I try to say something, but my voice is gone. The only thing I can hear is my sluggish heartbeat. Walls of grey and black metal surround me. The floor is frigid, and I'm barefoot. I curl my toes, but I can't escape my discomfort. I wrap my arms around myself, trying to preserve my body heat, but it's as though I'm naked – exposed and vulnerable to the elements of this…place._

_**Wake up, Seraphine.**_

_I blink to clear my vision. My breath catches in my throat. Sprawled out before me like a carpet of shimmering jewels is an expanse of stars that I see through reinforced glass. I observe a planet with azure oceans and green continents. A swirl of white wraps its long tendrils around the surface, giving the illusion that I'm looking at a pristine marble – shining, magnificent, and perfect. I look down to find a console at my fingertips and realize that I'm on a ship. How did I get here? I don't know the first thing about flying a vehicle like this, nor do I recall being sent on any missions involving space travel. Not to mention, this console looks damaged and dead. None of this makes sense. All I know for certain is that the planet in the window is not Korriban._

_**Look closer.**_

_It's my voice of reason speaking – the same tone I hear so often when I'm in danger. Something creaks and moves behind me. My heart skips a beat. When I move to turn around, however, the scene around me blurs and shifts. The console and all its related structures fade and morph into a small chamber. The walls are the same, meaning that I'm still on the unfamiliar ship. Now, I'm standing next to a large bed. My hand moves to touch silken sheets the color of rubies, fingers caressing the soft mattress. There's something resting on the nightstand – an undershirt that I barely recognize. Another article of clothing lies discarded on the floor. Again, mine. Then a thought. Is this…where I sleep?_

_**Something's wrong.**_

_The air is stale and dry, hinting at an absence of life. A stain on the pillow catches my eye. A few drops of what looks like blood. As I look on in dismay, the stain grows and expands, covering the entire pillow and dripping down onto the mattress. An emotion mushrooms in my abdomen – a growing unease. My heartbeat quickens, and I clutch at my chest as though trying to calm the drummer within. I examine my surroundings, but I can't find anything immediately wrong. My ears strain to listen for sounds of an intruder, but all I can hear is the eerie creaking and groaning of the ship. Just that. I can't even hear the life support systems or the rumbling of the engine._

_**Turn around.**_

_I obey, adrenaline rising up like bile in my throat. My hands restlessly search for the lightsabers that should be on my hips. I grow frantic when I can't find them. _

Don't panic_ – my logic reminds me. _You are not helpless_. _

_Steadying myself, I use the only defense I currently have – my hands. I raise them in the air and prepare to push away whatever threat I'm about to face, only to see an empty hallway. The lights around me dim until I can hardly see anything anymore. Even the bed disappears. Fortunately, the med bay is nearby. How I know that is a mystery. Not that I care at the moment. All I want is light. The verdant glow of a Kolto tank illuminates the hallway just enough, and I take a few steps forward until I leave the chamber to enter the corridor. Why is it so quiet? Why does this place feel so abandoned? Why is there nobody else on this ship? Why am I alone here?_

_Or am I?_

_**Not that way. Behind you…**_

_Where? Who? All I can see is pitch black darkness in the direction my voice is telling me to go. My right hand grips the wall of the corridor so tightly that my knuckles turn white. Adrenaline tells me I'm in danger, my instinct screams for me to find my weapons immediately, while my body stretches taught with coiled tension. The temperature drops even further, reminding me of the cold I felt once when trapped in a cave overnight on Ziost. That night, I grew to hate the cold with a savage passion. As I squint to try and see anything ahead, I hear my own voice whisper right next to my ear._

_**Let me show you…**_

_My eyes widen when I feel something hot and sticky on the palm of the hand that I'm using to grip the wall. Blood – thick and viscous – coats my arm all the way up to my elbow. I watch it drip down onto the ground and slither to my feet. With morbid fascination, I observe as the crimson fluid wraps upwards, coating my legs up to my knees. Then, it moves again, transforming into bloody footprints that disappear down the corridor into the darkness. The voice doesn't have to command me to follow. As though hypnotized, I put one foot in front of the other, tracing the path of the ghostly prints. Each step that I take makes a wet sound, as though I'm treading through a puddle. I want to look down and see what I'm walking in, but I dare not look away from the corridor and the footprints ahead of me. _

_**This way…**_

_The light whispering rustles the hair against my ear, as though a tangible mouth breathes upon it. I gasp at the sensation and whirl around. The goosebumps return. My eyes narrow, hurting as I try to see anything out of place in the pitch black nothingness all around. But, the threat that I anticipate doesn't make an appearance. I walk through the halls but find nothing. Just more darkness. Can I trust this voice? Even though it's mine, could it be leading me into a trap? Could someone be leading me astray?_

_**You are afraid of betrayal. Good. You should be…**_

_I feel a nudge on the edge of my awareness and look ahead once more. On the left, I see a flickering light emerging from beneath a door. What's this? A room? Why didn't I see it before? Urged forward by a mysterious force, I walk towards the light and press my hand against the sensor that will grant me entry. The door hisses open, and I have to squint once again to see anything. As my eyes adjust to the flickering lamps, a vision comes into focus. Horror wells up inside my heart. I want to look away, but I can't. I'm mesmerized. _

_Blood. So much blood everywhere. All over the bed, staining the sheets, discoloring the walls, trapped against a matted red braid and unseeing silver orbs. The figure who stands above it all turns to me, eyes blazing with madness._

_**One of your own…**_

_I fall to my knees and cradle my head in my hands. My mind rebels against what I'm seeing, as does my stomach. My gaze slips from the traitor, falling to the prone body on the ground. She is still. So very still. It can't be. She can't be dead. I can't be dead. _

_This isn't happening. It's a dream. A nightmare. I have to get out of here. Now. My thoughts whirl chaotically, but among the maelstrom I can hear my own voice repeat the same words over and over again._

How could you? I trusted you!

_**One of your own…**_

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.

I learned long ago that waking up screaming was a risk to both my safety and my reputation. Screaming or moaning indicates fear, and those around me are vultures waiting to spot my weakness. I'm no stranger to these dreams, and over the years I've developed a specific method of waking up from such nightmares. From the first moment that I latch onto consciousness, I restrain my physical reactions. I reach out with my senses, looking for immediate danger. My hand flies to the weapon at my side – now a lightsaber instead of a war blade – while my eyes dart around the room to make sure that I'm alone. When these two steps are complete, I allow myself to move.

_Calm down. You're alive. It wasn't real. Just a nightmare._

My first pressing need calls for a bathroom. I'm about to be violently sick. I kick off the sheets, roll off the bed, and stumble around, blindly looking for the door that leads to my salvation. That's when I realize that the room I'm in is completely alien to me. I expected to wake up in my acolyte quarters in the Academy. This room is much smaller than that. The ceiling is low, and I can only take about ten steps between one side to the other. Disoriented and confused, I stare at the four walls around me, feeling like a mouse in a box.

I want to understand where I am and why I'm trapped here, but my stomach doesn't cooperate. My knees buckle and I drop to the ground, vomiting all over the cold floor. I heave until there's nothing left in me anymore. Tears run down my face as I continue to gag, remembering the last image of my nightmare. It isn't the sight of blood making me sick. It isn't the gore. It's the fact that I saw myself mutilated past recognition by someone I know and trust. That last thought gives me pause.

Wait. Trust? Since when do I trust _anybody_? I pull myself up and away from the mess on the ground and lean back against the wall. As I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, I try to make sense of it all. My ravaged body is clear in my mind's eye, but the figure that hurt me isn't. I can't remember who they were – what their face looked like, what their gender was, their species, or if it's somebody that I currently know. The first name that pops into my head is Lord Qet, the apprentice to the Darth that forced me to kill my Overseer. I recall the way he looked at me during my trial – the way his eyes measured me up as though assessing my skill. With that memory, others return. I remember my brave and insolent speech to the Dark Council and the way Lord Qet dragged me out of the Council Chambers…

_He touched you. He dared to put his hands on you._

I recall the all-consuming numbness that took hold of my body. Then Tremel's expression, serene as he accepted death. Darth Ravage's visage flashes in my thoughts. He didn't like the way I replied to their praise, the way I practically announced my superiority. He said something in response, but I can't remember what it was now. After that, my memory is blank. What happened to me? How did I get into this tiny room? This oppressive space is so…sterile. Everything about it – the walls, the tables, the bed in the center, even the curtains – are white. Other details come into focus – a Kolto tank, various medical instruments, white cabinets, and a large sink. There, just on the edge, I spot a cluster of needles, syringes, bloody bandages, and empty med kits.

_Blood? Whose?_

For the first time since I regained consciousness, I notice what I'm wearing. My armor is gone, replaced by a skin-tight grey body suit. I glance at the needles again and quickly tear at the material on my arm and my thigh. Sure enough, I see several entry wounds. Whoever is responsible for bringing me here has injected me with something. The material of the suit clings to me, cold and sticky like the skin of an eel. A sweet synthetic smell emanates from it, and as I raise my arm to my nose I recognize the scent as Kolto. A drop of sweat beads on my forehead and trails down my cheek. A wave of exhaustion washes over me.

I feel as though I've been sick for a long time. At least, it's what I surmise sickness would feel like. I've never actually been ill before – just injured. This makes me wonder if some of those syringes didn't have something in them that's dampening my strength. Did someone give me something to sedate me - to keep me here? This is why I hate needles; this is why I don't trust anyone to inject me with anything. Ever. Not even medical droids who preach the best intentions but could easily be sliced or sabotaged by my enemies.

I clutch my lightsaber to my chest. It's only one of them, but at least I still have a weapon. My breathing accelerates as I look around for the door. I push myself to my feet and make my way to a rectangular line on the wall – the only seam that breaks the bleak white color there. My legs are weak, my knees the consistency of goo. My hands tremble like leaves in the wind. It takes me too long to realize that this door only opens from the outside. I'm trapped, sealed in this sterile prison. Furious, I pull back my arm and bang my fist against the wall. Despite my anxiety, I stay silent. I'm too proud to shout or call for help.

In the lull, images from my nightmare assault me at the rate of blaster fire. I cringe when I see my bloodied body again – mangled, torn up, a victim of violent betrayal. Panic sets in. _Have_ I been betrayed? Hard to accomplish when I don't trust anyone. I gather Force into my palms and step back, blasting the door with everything I have. The energy bounces off the door and comes flying back to me. I narrowly avoid being thrown against the opposite wall.

_A wall that can resist Force? Not good. Use your lightsaber. Let's see how well it withstands that._

I draw my weapon and press the switch on its side. The whiteness in the room is thrown off hue by the green glow. So be it. They want to trap me in here? The fools. Nobody traps a Sith! I'll just have to carve my way out.

_Stay calm. Stay rational._

The first several attempts to cut through the reinforced wall fail, but I refuse to give up. There's nothing in the room that could help me. My lightsaber's heat is the best chance I have. As I repeatedly smash the blade against the wall and try to cut through the impossibly resilient material, I get an idea. I hack at the surface until I see my blade form a small cut in the seal. Using my free hand, I collect Force between my fingers and try to mold it into a sharp flat shape. I wedge it into the cut my weapon is making. As I push with the lightsaber, I widen my fingers and the shape simultaneously to help tear the gash open farther.

This is exhausting. By the time I've made it half way down the wall, I'm panting with exertion. I don't understand what's weakened me so much, and this lack of clarity scares me more than the thought that I'm trapped. I give my saber a few more pushes before black spots appear in my vision. Why does my connection to the Force feel so faint? I'm having trouble sustaining it, and I haven't felt the comforting presence of my Vortex since I woke up. I yearn to know the identity of my enemies – to understand what it is I'm up against. Then, just as I try to renew my efforts to cut through the wall, a sound behind me nearly makes me jump out of my skin. I pull my lightsaber free and whirl around, fully expecting an attack. Instead, I'm met with the expressionless glowing eyes of a silver medical droid.

"Lord Sith, this unit's sensors indicate that you are ill. Please return to the bed so that this unit may perform a bioscan to determine the cause," the machine drones in a scratchy monotone. I recall seeing it standing in the corner of the room. As still and lifeless as it was, I figured it was deactivated.

"No need, droid," I reply, my shoulders sagging in relief. "Leave me alone."

"Cannot comply," it quips and produces a needle from one of its internal compartments. The sight of the green liquid in the syringe shouldn't scare me; I know it's just a Kolto injection. Unfortunately, that understanding does nothing for my current short tempter and paranoia. The droid zips towards me, balancing on a single wheel. "Please, return to a relaxed position so that this unit may administer assistance."

"What's in that? Get away from me," I growl, backing up until my back presses against the carved up wall. There's nowhere to else to go.

"Alternate directive given by higher authority to - " I raise my lightsaber and point it at the machine's head. It halts, goes silent, and blinks at me.

"My lightsaber is the only authority you need for obedience. Get away from me or I'll cut you in half and turn you into a pile of scraps." Big words for someone who is hesitating. I would make good on my threat, but this room is so tiny that I'm concerned about the consequences of cutting up a machine with a burning lightsaber. If it should explode, I might be seriously injured. Even if it doesn't, the smoke and vapors would make breathing impossible. As far as I can tell, there's no air vents in here. None that are currently functioning, anyway.

"Lord Sith, this unit does not comprehend your hostile demeanor. This unit is only offering medical assistance."

"I don't _need_ medical assistance," I grind out through gritted teeth.

"This unit's sensors indicate otherwise," it insists. Something whirs inside its head. A long, cylindrical projection snaps up and begins to run a scan over me. "Sensors indicate severe internal damage and bleeding. Excessive movement not recommended. This unit advises immediate sedation and return to Kolto tank for further..." And that's the end of my patience. I'm fully prepared to destroy this obviously expensive piece of machinery – explosion and smoke be damned – when the door to the med bay pings and slides open.

The sudden lure of freedom is too much for me to resist. Without skipping a beat, I blast the intruder with a sphere of Force and charge forward. At least, I try to. The Force isn't obeying me with as much precision as I need for this sort of blitz. My enemy resists my attack and stands his ground. I lash out with my saber, only to be met with a firm counter. Like a wild cornered beast, I continue to press forward. Only when a wall of Force hits me square in the chest and sends me careening to the ground do I stop and register who it is that's standing between me and freedom. Leaning in the doorway is Lord Qet, looking much too amused for my liking. That easygoing smile of his immediately rubs me the wrong way, especially since he's clearly overpowered me.

"Back away before she makes good on that threat," he warns the droid, his tone jovial. "And you, my reckless _apprentice_," his tongue slips over the word, caressing it with sickening sweetness, "…should lower that saber before I take it from you."

"Try it," I growl at him. So it was this man who brought me here, after all? It was this bastard who injected me with poison? My pride demands immediate revenge.

"Make no mistake. I left that there with you, and I can just as easily take it away."

"I'll gut you," I hiss.

He shakes his head. "Now, now…is that any way to address the man who saved your life?"

"Saved my life? All you and Vowrawn did was lie. The one who truly saved me was Tremel." Suddenly, I'm suspended in the air. Something cold and unyielding wraps around my neck and cuts off my air supply. An agonizing pressure builds in my head. By the time I realize that Lord Qet is Force choking me, I'm too panicked and frantic to care about anything but trying to escape his grip. Gutting him will have to wait.

"You _dare_ speak his name with such disrespect?" Lord Qet growls, his syllables accented with venom and anger. "You _dare!_ That is _Darth_ Vowrawn to you, girl, and you will address me as your _Master_." I can feel my eyes rolling back into my head as my lungs scream for air. Something springs to life in my side – a new kind of agony. I feel my skin tearing there.

"My Lord, I must advise that you desist," a voice says calmly from a distance, cutting through my distress. "Please, My Lord. Darth Vowrawn ordered for us to - "

"I _know_ what he said, Imperial," Lord Qet snaps. The grip around my neck disappears; the Force that held me up fades into nonexistence. My body drops to the ground like a rock. I cough and hack, gulping in air as fast as I can. Something wet and sticky presses against my side. Through blurred vision, I can see blood seeping through my suit. My ears are ringing. I sense movement above me; someone rushes to my side and kneels down. When I look up, I'm met with startling blue eyes.

"Quinn?" I gasp in-between fits of coughing. "Quinn…what are you doing here? Are…are you with these people?"

"My Lord, please allow me to assist you," he murmurs and reaches for my elbow. No! I don't want _anyone_ touching me right now! Not when I'm this helpless. Not when I can't sense my Vortex at all. What is he doing here? Why is he talking so calmly with a man he shouldn't even know? Is he a part of all this? Bastard! Traitor! As soon as I feel his fingers touch my arm, I shout a denial and shove him away with whatever strength I have left in the Force. He stumbles back. Something flashes in the light of the room – a shock collar around his neck. Why is he wearing that? Do I even care? I feel sick again and try to crawl away. I don't want anyone to see me like this – so weak, so frail, so unlike a Sith.

_Then don't allow it._

Frenzied now and beside myself with fear and rage, I pull on every single scrap of energy around myself that I can reach. The Force is everywhere, all around me – Tremel once said. No matter how weak my connection to it may seem, the Force will always come to my aid. I shudder as I do this, feeling my nausea intensify. A pain splits open my skull as though someone is hammering on it. I push myself to my feet, determined to face Lord Qet on even ground. I want him to fear me; I want him to see that he cannot dominate me. Instead, he looks even more amused.

"Truly, _apprentice_, you are a unique and magnificent creature. That you can even think about combat in your condition is incredible. Do you know why you cannot call upon the Force?" He pauses. For effect, I imagine. Mutinous, I retain my silence and glare at him, still working to try and regain my strength. "Rather, you can, but it should cause you nothing but pain and discomfort." He points to one of the empty syringes on the sink. "It's a special recipe of mine. Wouldn't want you flying into a mindless rage again. I didn't anticipate it last time, and you killed nearly seven people. As amusing as it was to witness, you also raked up quite a bit of property damage."

"What are you talking about?" I ask.

"Do you even know why you're fighting or do you fight just because you can? You think we are your enemies, but we are not. Do you remember what you did and how you got here?" When I stay silent, he finally frowns. "Imperial," he gestures to Quinn. "Make her sit down before I activate that thing around your neck."

"Yes, My Lord," Quinn replies. I sense his rebellion, his displeasure with Lord Qet. It comforts me in a small way. Maybe it's because his emotions imply that he's being forced to comply with these people. Maybe it's because it means that he hasn't betrayed me as I originally thought. I don't really understand this particular line of logic. It isn't like he was loyal to me in the first place. Why should I care what he thinks or does? Why should it matter whom he serves? In the end, all I want is my freedom. That's all that should hold any kind of significance. Nevertheless, when I see the stiff manner in which Quinn holds himself as he approaches me, the raging beast inside my chest is somewhat appeased. Perhaps I could convince him to be my ally, to help me escape. To do that, however, my tempter needs to cooperate.

"Don't touch me." The words lash out before I can stop them.

_Not the best way to make allies – _my inner logic reasons. I know I should yield, but just imagining having to put up with physical contact makes me shudder.

"My Lord, you are suffering from a serious internal injury," he murmurs again. His voice sounds soothing, as though he's trying to talk a feral Manka cat out of attacking. "Please, allow me to help you." He shuffles to the sink, reaches into one of the cabinets above it, and pulls out a pink syringe. There's no way he can miss the way I flinch away from him. "It's alright. This is just a substance that will help slow the bleeding until we can get you back into a Kolto tank."

"You're not taking me anywhere," I say, my voice low. Glaring, I meet Lord Qet's eyes. "You will escort me out of here and release me. I want nothing to do with you or your Master."

"Funny that you should say that, considering what you are and what you've done," Lord Qet huffs. "You are Sith, but you hold no title and no purpose. You are not even a Lord. Without a Master, you are as worthless as the Imperial beside you."

_He's right. Unless you have a Master that you can overthrow one day, you will never amount to anything within society. At least listen to what he offers._

I step back and lean against the bed behind me, using it for support. Though I try to give the appearance that I'm in control, I feel ready to pass out. The pain in my side is getting worse. "I will listen to what you have to say, for now, but keep your instruments and injections away from me." Lord Qet's frown deepens.

"Let me shed some light on your situation, girl. The only reason you aren't a rotting corpse in Korriban's sands right now is by the grace and good will of my Master. Your status as my apprentice gives you some rank and power in the Empire. Without this title, you are nothing. No. Less than nothing. As your Master, only I hold the power to promote you farther. It is your job, therefore, to convince me that this is a worthy endeavor." He sneers. "Currently, I am unconvinced."

"Are we no longer on Korriban?" I ask, somewhat confused. How long have I been unconscious?

"We are not."

"How did we get here?"

Lord Qet considers me for a moment. I sense him trying to determine if my words are sincere. "You really don't remember, do you?"

"Obviously not if I'm asking you," I counter irritably.

"You destroyed the first starship we boarded after your trial with the Dark Council."

My mind reels at this revelation. What? Destroyed?

"Judging by your surprise, you really weren't yourself, as the Imperial suggested." Both mine and Lord Qet's gazes flicker to Quinn. His face is set in stone. The only way I know that he's stressed is because he's standing so close to me. I can feel his heightened temperature; I can hear his elevated breathing.

"Explain this," I demand. Quinn looks at Lord Qet, seeking permission to do just that. When the latter nods, he straightens his shoulders and recounts the events that led to my imprisonment in this room.

"After we left the Academy, you were acting strangely, My Lord. Darth Vowrawn ordered Lord Qet to board his starship with all three of us – yourself, me, and the Twi'lek slave. Though Lord Qet tried to speak to you, you were entirely unresponsive. In fact, it didn't matter _who_ spoke to you. You remained silent and withdrawn. We reached the spaceport and were in the midst of boarding Darth Vowrawn's starship when…" he trails off, looking distinctly uncomfortable.

"When what?"

"Well…there was an explosion, My Lord."

"_You_ exploded," Lord Qet cuts in. "The air around you caught fire and you flew into a rage, destroying everything and everyone in your path." His smile is wistful. "I've never seen such carnage and destruction. It was magnificent. However," his expression of mirth evaporates, "you destroyed an entire starship and slaughtered its crew, rendering it useless. Repairs are going to cost a fortune. I don't know how you survived, but you managed to emerge from the blast with only a single injury." He points to my side. "After that, my Master ordered that you be taken to a medical facility in Kaas City. The trip took longer than anticipated and we nearly lost you on the way. However, this Imperial proved to be particularly skilled as a medic and managed to stabilize you until we could reach the city itself."

"How long…?" I rasp, trying to absorb all of this information. What does this mean? Did they see my Vortex? Who now knows about my abilities and vulnerabilities? From Lord Qet's description, I hold out hope that what I displayed could be mistaken for blind rage.

"Two weeks, My Lord," Quinn answers. "This is the first time you've been removed from the Kolto tank for this long in that time frame. I thought that the wound had been healing more progressively. It seems I was mistaken."

"So we are in Kaas City?" I ask Lord Qet.

"Currently, we are in my Master's personal residence on Dromund Kaas. He expressed his disapproval when I suggested that we leave you in the hospital in the main city. It seems that he doesn't want you and your people's presence to attract too much attention."

"My people? Who else is here…?" my voice is growing weaker.

"The Twi'lek girl. She is your personal slave now," Lord Qet replies, a smug tilt to his chin. "Consider her a gift from _Master_ to apprentice. She's an outspoken and rebellious creature, but her skills will be of use to you in your coming tasks."

"My tasks?" The room is spinning, and I fight to keep a hold of my awareness.

"Naturally, you will work to pay off the debt you owe to my Master. You will use your power to aid him and will dedicate all of your strength to carrying out his will. You are already behind on your assignments, apprentice, so I suggest you recover quickly and get to work."

"Behind what?"

"Your first assignment will be to go to Balmorra. You will need a crew and a ship not registered or affiliated with my Master. For this, you will take the Twi'lek slave and this Imperial with you. More details will be provided upon your departure." All of this is too much to take in. Balmorra? A ship? A crew? I hated my life on Ziost and Korriban, but those times feel simpler and less treacherous than the muck I've found myself in now. It seems like yesterday when I was talking to Tremel about my trials. Just the other day, I heard him speaking, was worried about failing him. And now, he was dead. The only person who came close to understanding me is gone, slain by my own hand. Not only that, but I'm bonded to men who seem hell-bent on using me like a tool to achieve their own mysterious agendas. It isn't an unusual occurrence for a Sith, but that doesn't mean I can accept it so easily.

_You have a Master, now. A true Master who holds much influence. This is good._

My logic fails to comfort me. I push away from the bed and move towards Lord Qet.

"Where do you think you're going, apprentice?"

"I want to get out of this…damn coffin of a room…"

"Not before you recover. My Master will not be denied his investment." I feel myself slipping into a dark void. Something pricks my arm. I glare at Quinn when I realize that he's injected me with the syringe in his hand. The medicine works fast. Something cold rushes through my veins. In moments, I'm helpless. Lord Qet catches me as I fall and holds me against his chest. I glare at Quinn when he tries to inject something else into my thigh. Using every ounce of my remaining willpower, I push at him with Force. It's weak, but he hits his arm on the table behind him and cuts himself with a curse.

Lord Qet laughs, the sound rumbling in his chest. "Magnificent, apprentice. Your stubbornness is truly legendary." He jostles me in his hold. I feel disgust when my cheek presses against his frigid armor. "Imperial, prepare the Kolto tank."

His hands feel horrible. Even through my suit, they're clammy and cold - rough like the skin of a reptile. Immediately, I'm reminded of another pair of hands. The white room disappears while another takes its place. A small room just like this, though darker and emptier. On the floor, a shivering red-haired girl sobs as a man kicks her over and over again. A shock whip cracks and the girl screams. The man laughs at her pain, thrilling when she begs him to stop. Then, he kneels down and pulls on the ropes that tie her hands and feet. He says something - words that she will never forget.

Her screams are the last thing I hear before everything goes black.


	7. ACT I: Chapter 7

**STAR WARS:**

**The Amaranthine Wrath**

* * *

**ACT I:**

**Chapter 7**

* * *

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I open my eyes to a strange ceiling. Daylight filters in through a window somewhere nearby, indicating that it's early morning. For the first time in too long, I feel well rested and calm upon awakening. My sleep was dreamless – no nightmares, no disturbances, and no assassins. This small measure of peace makes me uneasy, for it's a sure sign that my life has taken a drastic turn. My memories are hazy, but I remember enough to understand that I've been saved from one kind of prison and dropped into another. For some time, I lie still and ponder the course fate has set me on. I've overcome so much to get here, and I wonder if all the sacrifices have justified the outcome. I know that my journey is far from over. There's so much more that I must accomplish to reach my goal, to find my place in the galaxy.

That thought leads to another. Where am I? Am I safe here? I obey my first instinct. Find a weapon. Fortunately, it seems that whoever placed me here had my paranoia in mind. I find a lightsaber within easy reach lying on a pillow on the other side of the bed. As I pick it up, I recognize it as the mysterious weapon that tumbled out of the unregistered taxi on Korriban. Lord Qet, supposedly, was responsible for it winding up there, but I have a gut feeling that there's more to it than that. This weapon still feels very familiar, almost like an old friend. I rub at my temple, trying to remember more of the recent events.

_Tremel is dead. You are no longer an Academy Acolyte. You are full Sith. Your Master is Lord Qet._

I need a plan of action. Now that I'm free of the Academy, I don't really know what comes next. Back then, I had a trial to overcome almost every day – a set of goals that drove my passion and determination. At the moment, however, I'm lost. I need a focus, a point that I can race towards. My recollections of the Academy bring a certain individual to mind. One of my regrets is leaving Korriban without severing Vemrin's head from his shoulders. I mull over the things that Lord Qet talked about the last time I was conscious. He mentioned Balmorra, a ship, and a mysterious assignment. I've read about Balmorra and its numerous troubles a few times during my studies at the Academy.

Conflict there is never in short supply. The Empire wants to seize it for its plethora of munitions factories while the citizens rebel and fight for independence. The war there is bloody and prolonged, with no sign of victory in sight. Though the natives bear no love for the Republic, it's rumored that they are receiving assistance from them behind the scenes to resist the Empire's plans to take over the planet. I don't know what Darth Vowrawn plans by sending me there, and I don't really care as long as it isn't political. I'm well known for drawing my lightsaber first and asking why later. I've proven multiple times over that I'm far from diplomatic, and I have no desire to be a part of his power games.

_You don't have a choice in the matter – _my reason argues. _You'll do whatever he says, even if it means scraping Bantha droppings off the heels of his boots. _

The thought is unpleasant – and infuriating! – but I can't deny its truth. As an apprentice, I have no choice about where I go or what I do. Not to mention, it seems that I've managed to rake up quite a debt already. Destroying an entire starship is something I may not recover from financially for a long time, even if my Master is apprentice to a Dark Council member and grants me a generous stipend. I need to prove myself as quickly as possible to attain the rank of Lord. Then, perhaps, I can consider rebelling.

It's not much, but it's a start. At least I have something in mind to work towards. With this determined, I feel more at ease. I have a direction again. Now, it's just a matter of moving forward.

First, I look down at myself. I'm wearing a set of loose breeches and a thin shirt; both are sterile white in color. I lift the edge of the shirt to see that the wound in my side and the burn on my abdomen are almost entirely healed on the surface. The gash will leave a hideous scar. Lord Qet mentioned that the injury had been severe, so I'm not surprised. However, seeing the pink flesh does make me wonder how long I've been unconscious. Knowing the date wouldn't help. All of my days at the Academy were such a blur that I stopped keeping track of time a while ago. Satisfied that I can move around without too much discomfort, I kick my feet over the side of the bed and take note of my surroundings.

The luxurious décor doesn't escape my notice. Clearly, this room is a part of a lavish residence. I don't think I've ever slept in such a large room alone before. It's at least five or six times the size of the previous one I was trapped in the last time I was awake. Remembering that tiny space makes me cringe, and I can't help but scan each of these corners for danger. Though I feel weak and somewhat off-balance, I wander around the chamber and explore. The first thing I do is make sure that I can open the door and windows. Looks like my Master has learned his lesson. I'm not locked in this time.

As I make a full circle, I notice something blinking on the nightstand next to my bed. Upon closer inspection, I find several items laid out there – a holo communicator, a vacuum sealed package of clothing, a pair of twin lightsabers, and a datapad. I inspect the holocom first. It's a newer model than the one I was given at the Academy. The controls are slightly different and the device itself looks brand new. After pressing the blinking red button on the side of it, I'm greeted with a small pale image of Lord Qet.

"Apprentice," he greets me in his usual laid back manner. "This message contains instructions that you are to follow as soon as you wake up. First, this device will now be your primary means of communication with Darth Vowrawn and myself. You are to carry it on your person at all times. On the nightstand in front of you are some supplies, including new armor and weapons. You are to equip yourself and meet with me immediately to discuss your next assignment. You are already weeks behind schedule." The hologram points to the right. "That datapad will tell you everything you need to know. You are to keep it with you at all times as well. This meeting will take place on the third floor of this residence. Make sure to bring your crew members with you. End of message." I curse as the hologram flickers and expires. I'd almost forgotten about my unconventional "crew". Wanting to postpone any thoughts as to how I will deal with them, I move to pry open the package of armor.

Dropping the dark garments onto the mattress, I examine them as they expand from compression. This is higher quality armor than anything I've ever worn. As I don the pieces one by one, I can't help appreciating the craftsmanship. The base material is made of an incredibly soft mesh that allows my skin to breathe without sacrificing integrity. As I pull it on, it adjusts to my body temperature. Everything is adaptive, meaning that all of the plated portions and modules can be replaced and upgraded if needed. All the hooks, ties, and zippers are conveniently located in places I can reach, which means I can don the entire ensemble without assistance. The boots, also heavily plated, are surprisingly light and flexible. They reach up to the middle of my thighs and have a low heel that won't get in the way of my agile stances. An interesting fold on the inside of one of these boots catches my eye. I grope around for a moment in an attempt to understand its function when I get an idea.

Setting aside the two lightsabers given to me by Lord Qet, I bring my old saber forward and smile when I see that it fits neatly into the compartment in my boot. I have no doubt that this pocket was made with something else in mind, but I'm so ecstatic about my own inventiveness that I don't care. This way, if I get disarmed, I will not be weaponless.

Now, to see how strange this looks. There's a full length mirror not far from my nightstand. Standing up, I catch my reflection and test the boot to see if my adjustment has changed the way it looks. Outwardly, the compartment is invisible. All it would take is a tug of the Force and the weapon will fly into my hand. Perfect.

I take a moment to examine my reflection. My silver eyes absorb the golden light trickling through the curtained windows, adopting it and making it their own. In this form-fitting solid black armor, I look older. Taller, somehow. As I examine myself with a critical eye, I work my long red hair into a thick braid that I toss over my shoulder. My hair has grown somewhat; it now reaches past my hips. The last time I saw my own reflection was during my trial with the Dark Council. I look so different from the frightened child I remember seeing in the black marble floor that I have to wonder if she and I are the same person at all. What's changed me so much? Surely it can't all be the armor. Could it be that I feel different now that I'm truly a Sith? Or perhaps…

A knock at the door disturbs my train of thought. I straighten my shoulders and raise my chin, crossing my arms over my chest. "Enter." The door creaks open, and I hear a familiar voice.

"My Lord, forgive me for disturbing you, but I need to perform several examinations to ensure that you are recovering on schedule."

"I said enter, Quinn," I complain with a frown. The ex-officer shuffles into the room, pressing a pair of datapads to his chest as he lowers his head in a low bow. He's dressed in a formal Imperial military uniform stripped of any markings of rank.

"My Lord," he murmurs. Now that he's standing closer to me, I can easily sense all of his conflicting emotions – frustration, anger, and shame. My eyes fall to his neck. He's still wearing a shock collar. I wonder why it makes me uncomfortable seeing that. Maybe it's because I know that he's an Imperial officer. Shock collars are typically reserved for slaves, criminals, and traitors. If he's considered either of the last two, then I only have myself and my improvised accusation in the Dark Council chambers to blame. As a creature of pride, I understand that wearing it must chafe at his ego.

"I'm guessing you're here on orders, so I won't stop you from doing what you must," I convey in a neutral tone. "But I will not allow you to touch me or inject me with anything, do you understand?"

"Yes, My Lord. May I proceed with the scans, then?"

"You may." Our exchange is a frigid one. Our brief interactions in the Academy's jails were filled with more life than this. Then again, I was convinced that he was on death row at the time. I had no idea that he would survive, that I would be forced to publicly destroy his career, and that we would both be dragged into this mess with Darth Vowrawn.

"My Lord, please lie down on the bed. This scan will only take a moment." I figure that the least I can do is cooperate, so I wordlessly obey. The last time I was conscious, my reason urged me to make an ally out of this man. I'm still determined to do so, even if I don't know the first thing about forging alliances. All I've ever had to worry about was enemies, after all. The word "friend" wasn't even in my vocabulary until I met Tremel, and I'm certain that the possibility of me ever using it again died with him. "Please remain still, My Lord," Quinn says as he punches a few buttons on one of the datapads and leans over me.

As the green light runs over my body, a sharp spicy scent drifts to my nose. It isn't unpleasant, but it's foreign. I glance at the ex-officer and notice that he looks a bit younger than the last time I saw him. His face is freshly shaven and his hair is brushed back in a casual but neat style. The bruises on his face have faded. I look at his uniform again and marvel. There's not a single crease or wrinkle in sight. The complete lack of chaos in his appearance frustrates me, and I suddenly get an urge to muss his hair.

Quinn looks like he's just emerged from a professional press machine. This man is, supposedly, going be a part of my crew. I'll have to give him orders and possibly rely on him during missions. There's a huge problem, though. His demeanor screams "unapproachable", making me wonder just where I'm supposed to start on the path of forming any sort of trust between us.

No. Not trust. Never trust. But…respect, perhaps?

_You're Sith. He'll either show the proper respect or he'll die like a dog._

That doesn't seem like the correct kind of approach, but I suppose that I'll figure things out as I go. Right now, I'm more concerned with getting this scan over with. Quinn has respected my command so far; he hasn't touched me. But him being this close to me is making me very uncomfortable. I don't like this proximity at all, especially since I'm lying down. From this position, I'm very vulnerable to attack. To settle my unbalanced emotions, I wrap my hand around one of the lightsabers at my hip. Quinn's face retains its neutrality, but I'm not fooled. He's noticed my action, and I've made him nervous. Looks like he doesn't trust me either. Great. And this man is going to be piloting my ship. At least, I think so. I realize that I have no idea what his skillset is. The thought successfully distracts me from my discomfort.

"What do you do, Quinn?" I ask him.

"Do, My Lord?" he replies without looking away from the screen of his scanner.

"Yes. What are your skills? My Master has determined that I can use you for my assignments and missions. I'm assuming this wasn't without good reason. I've already noticed that you know your way around the med bay. But, what else do you do?"

"In addition to various medical skillsets, I have a varied knowledge of piloting several classes of ships, including but not limited to capital ships, starships, frigates, cruisers, and transport ships," he answers as he continues punching in codes on his datapad. "I also know how to use a wide range of weapons and artillery, both close and long range." He pauses as he takes a moment to adjust something on his screen.

"Is that all?" I inquire sarcastically, more than a little impressed.

"No, My Lord," he answers with honesty, apparently missing my tone. "I am also an accomplished diplomat with over a decade of experience in military and civilian negotiations. I am fluent in several languages, including but not limited to Huttese, Bocce, Ryl, and – " I stop him with a gesture of my hand.

"That question wasn't meant to be answered, Quinn." Irritated, I rub at my temple where I feel a headache coming on.

"Does your head hurt, My Lord?" he inquires. There's no particular concern or emotion in his voice. I glance at him and notice that he's still manipulating something on his screen. In fact, I don't believe he's actually looked me in the eye even once since he entered the room.

"A bit, but it doesn't matter. Are you finished with that scan yet?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"Your injuries appear to be healing very well. My prognosis is that you should be able to move around normally within several days."

"Normally?"

"Without much discomfort, I mean. For now, I would suggest restricting your activities to – "

"Absolutely not," I cut in, irritated. "I have to resume my training as soon as possible."

"I must strongly advise against that, My Lord," he responds and backs away, still avoiding my gaze. We haven't been in the same room for more than ten minutes and this man has already pushed all of my buttons. I clench my jaw and get to my feet, feeling more comfortable now that I'm not looking up at him from a prone position.

"And why should I listen to you?" I counter defensively.

"That wasn't my implication. I simply wanted to convey my recommendations as your physician."

"You will look at me when you speak to me, _ex-officer_," I command. Finally, our eyes meet. I'm not prepared for the thinly veiled hostility I see in those azure depths.

"Forgive me, My Lord. I believe that you told me once that I should never look a Sith directly in the eyes. I was simply adhering to that advice." The extent of this man's hatred for me is deeper than I originally believed. Not surprising, really. I've single-handedly ruined his purpose in life – his career – and made it impossible for him to ever receive any kind of promotion or advancement. I've branded him a traitor before the highest authority aside from the Emperor himself. That he despises me is only logical. What _is_ surprising is the extent of _my_ hostility toward him.

"You think to hide your emotions from me, but I tell you now that this is impossible. Just like before, you defy me and show me disrespect." I lift my hand and wrap tendrils of Force around Quinn's throat – not enough to choke him, but enough to make my point. His mask of neutrality falters as he loses some color in his face. "I don't need that shock collar to keep you in line. I could snap your neck with a flick of my finger, _ex-officer_."

"I did not mean to offend you, My Lord," he mumbles.

"It is your _manner_ that offends me, Imperial," I reply and squeeze a little harder. He coughs, but his eyes still do not lose their fire. I surmise that _this_ is the source of my anger. This man is nothing compared to me. He should bow down to me and express gratitude that I even deign to grace him with my attention. I am Sith while he is a Force-blind nobody – a broken man with no future aside from the one I choose to bestow upon him. Yet still – still! – he refuses to submit to me. He may feign all the obedience, loyalty, and respect that he wants, but all I need to know the truth of his nature is written in those damned blue eyes and the Force that trembles with his inner turmoil.

_Disgusting – _suddenly, I want nothing more to do with him. In fact, I'm concerned that if I spend any more time around him, I won't be able to resist the urge to cut him in half. I don't need him dead. Since Lord Qet specifically told me that I was to work with him for my assignment, I decide that I need to walk away. Immediately. I release my hold on his neck and turn aside. "In the future, if I sense any more of such insolence, you will regret it severely. Is that understood?"

"Yes, My Lord." He bows his head, but I ignore him. Instead, I pick my datapad up off my nightstand and search for Lord Qet's instructions. Apparently, I'm to pick up my Twi'lek crew member in a room in the servants' wing of the residence. Without looking at Quinn or saying another word, I stomp out of the room to do just that.

* * *

.

.

.

"Whew, you look a lot scarier than I remember in _that_ get-up," the Twi'lek slave whistles when I enter her chambers. "And angrier." I find her sitting in front of a small table in a room not much bigger than the med bay I woke up in some time ago. Instantly, I feel shut in and trapped. According to Quinn, I've been in and out of a Kolto tank for the past three weeks, meaning that this girl has been staying here all that time. I wrinkle my nose in distaste, imagining that I would go crazy being forced to remain in such a small space. Perhaps I can attribute that to this girl's obvious lack of an instinct of self-preservation. Instead of groveling at my feet and anticipating my needs as a true slave would, she's speaking to me like we're on equal terms.

"Slave, you will follow me," I decree.

"Right, Your Lordship," she grumbles without a hint of sincerity and stands up. For efficiency's sake, I force myself to remain calm in the face of her casual attitude. Those striped Lekku and her blue skin mark her immediately as inferior in my eyes. She's still wearing the shock collar, and I allow myself to imagine how it would feel to see her writhing in pain on the ground. For the moment, this image satisfies me and soothes my ill temper.

"And where is it that we're going, exactly?" she asks, picking up the pieces of what looks like a pair of blasters. "Or is that classified?" When she tucks a dirty looking cloth into her leather breeches, I realize that she was cleaning them.

"We are going to see my Master. Have you been briefed on your duties?" I question her with a glare.

"Dunno," she shrugs. Her fingers work quickly to put the blasters back together. From what I understand, it's a delicate process, but this girl makes it look as simple as assembling a child's puzzle cube. "Nobody's really talked to me this whole time. I just know that I'm supposed to go somewhere with you." She clicks the last of the pieces into place and holsters the weapons on her belt. "Though I gotta say, if you're expecting me to do the whole 'formality' thing, you're out of luck."

"You'll do whatever it is I need you to do without complaint, slave."

"Righto…forgot who I was talking to."

_Hold back your anger. Save it for the training grounds._

"You will tell me your skills. Now."

"My skills?" she replies, raising an eyebrow. "Well, I guess if you're asking about what I was doing before I came here then I can tell you." She pauses as if waiting for me to respond. I'm not sure if it's my obvious frustration with her or the frown on my face that gets her talking again. I sense that she's uncomfortable in my presence. Her nonchalance in the face of this confuses me. If she's afraid of me, then why not just mindlessly obey me? Why all this circling?

"Right…well I'm pretty good with a pair of blasters. I can slice pretty much anything with wires and a memory core, and I'm not too shabby at figuring out ancient puzzles and the like. Is that…what you wanted to know?"

I glance at my datapad, nod, and motion for her to follow me. As we meander through hallways and climb several sets of stairs, an awkward silence descends upon the three of us. I can't shake the feeling that I want nothing to do with these people and that I could accomplish whatever my Master needs alone without any assistance. After all, I've been alone for years. I've survived odds that were stacked against me. I've stepped over more than my share of bodies to get where I am. If I can overcome such challenges – if I can kill a Terentatek with an old war blade and a rusty lightsaber – I can accomplish whatever Vowrawn needs without dragging two strangers along for the ride.

My datapad chirps. I look down and see that the red blip – representing myself – is right at the spot where I need to be. We're standing in front of a tall entryway – a set of double doors. I press my hand to the sensor. It buzzes and denies me entry. When several tries end in the same result, the Twi'lek speaks up –

"Sure this is the place?" she asks, her violet eyes darting around the doorway. Quinn stands at attention, his expression unreadable. We haven't spoken more than a few words to each other since we left my quarters.

"This is where my Master instructed us to meet him, yes," I reply, doing my best to ignore him.

"I could slice it, but I don't have any equipment or anything." I look at her without any understanding. In fact, I'm not sure I can even comprehend her offer. Did a slave just suggest that she could slice into her Sith master's security system?

"Know your place," I warn her.

"Jeez, I was just trying to lighten the mood," she mumbles. Suddenly, she throws up her hands defensively. "Whoa, now, Your Sithiness. Don't throw me into a wall like you did last time just for making a joke." The only thing that stops me from considering it is the ringing of my holocom.

"Apprentice," Lord Qet's projection greets me when I answer the call.

"What is the meaning of this? We've arrived on location as you instructed. Why is the door locked?" I demand to know.

"Patience, girl," my Master interrupts. "Something came up, and I can't meet you right now. Proceed to the spaceport. I will have a courier direct you to your ship."

"The ship you mentioned previously?"

"Yes, apprentice. It is unregistered and, therefore, cannot be tracked by anyone in either the Empire or the Republic."

"Like the taxi?"

"Yes."

"Why are you concerned about the Empire tracking us?"

"The situation is complex, and I won't risk speaking about it over holocom. Is the Imperial there with you?" I nod and motion for Quinn to come closer. "Good. Then have him establish a secure connection on the ship as soon as you arrive. I will brief you about the details once you are there. Meanwhile, set a course for Balmorra. There is much to do, apprentice, and little time to spare." Just when I think that he's going to end the call, he turns back to the camera and smirks. "Oh, and apprentice? Don't destroy this one. It's on loan and it does _not _belong to you." As soon as the transmission cuts out, I turn to my ragtag crew.

"Can you do as he says, Quinn?"

"Yes, My Lord."

"Whoa, now. Why does _he_ get to be called by his name while I'm being called _slave_?" the Twi'lek complains.

"Because that is what you are," I reply.

"That's not fair," she pouts. "I've got an idea. Let's make a deal. How about you call me Vette and I call you…well…whatever you want? Your name maybe?"

"I have a _better_ idea," I say and step closer to her. We're about the same height. This small detail only serves to intensify my dislike for her. "If you obey my commands and you don't speak unless spoken to, I will do my best to refrain from throwing you into walls and choking the life out of you. How does _that_ sound, _Vette_?" I add as much poison as I can manage into the name. I fully mean to belittle it and insult her. Instead, a huge smile breaks out on her face.

"That's it! You called me by my name!"

* * *

.

.

.

The moment that we hop out of our taxi at Mezenti Spaceport, we're greeted by a mousy looking man who looks like he's afraid of his own shadow. As he approaches us, he keeps glancing over his shoulder as though he's expecting an attack.

"I'm here on orders from Lord Qet. Are you my courier?" I ask.

"Shh…" he hisses. "Not so loud, My Lord. Please, follow me." Though the spaceport is buzzing with activity, I'm certain that I haven't caught anyone's attention. In fact, everyone is so busy with their own problems that nobody bats an eyelash in our direction. Still, this courier keeps looking around, acting for all the world like a soldier sneaking around in a minefield. "This way."

Convinced that I'm being led by a madman, I gesture for my two companions to trail behind us.

"Someone's been in the spice box today," I hear Vette mumble under her breath. The timid courier leads us to a private hangar separated from the others by a few thick walls of metal and concrete. When we're out of sight of the public, he gestures for me to come closer and hands me two short cylindrical objects. He doesn't need to explain what they are. Judging from the red buttons on the top, I understand that these are the remotes to my companions' shock collars.

"Your ship should be arriving at any moment, My Lord."

"It isn't here?" I ask, surprised.

"No, My Lord. It's parked above the atmosphere. You'll be taking a shuttle to it." The measures that Lord Qet has taken to hide this thing from prying eyes seems extreme.

_And he calls __**you**__ paranoid? _

I'm suddenly intrigued. This mission may be more complex than I expected. Just as the courier said, a shuttle arrives in several minutes. It's a tiny five-seater, but I still have to shield my eyes from the strong winds of its jets when it lands. "This way please, My Lord."

The moment that I set foot into aircraft, I'm uncomfortable. This is yet another small and confined space. There aren't any lights around the passenger seats except for a few on the ground. The darkness makes this cabin look even smaller. "How long is the flight?" I ask, trying to mask my discomfort.

"Thirty or so minutes," I hear the pilot respond. "We'll be docking with the ship as quickly as possible, My Lord."

"Right…" My stomach lurches as the tiny shuttle takes off. This is my least favorite part about space travel. I've only flown off world on three separate occasions, and all of them were horrible experiences. The first time, I lost my breakfast from terror alone. The second time, I nearly passed out from the fluctuations in pressure. The last and final time that I boarded a shuttle like this was when I took my trip to Korriban. That had been rather uneventful aside from some sand that got trapped in our engine. I'll never forget the turbulence.

"My Lord, are you feeling alright?" Quinn shouts over the nearly deafening shriek of the shuttle's engines. I nod and close my eyes, praying that I don't disgrace myself by fainting or throwing up. Fortunately, the liftoff passes by without a hitch, and once we're past the turbulence of atmospheric ascent, I feel much better. Soon, I see our destination through the reinforced glass of the window.

"Wow, that's a big ship," Vette murmurs, straining against her seatbelt to get a better view. Now that we're off-world, the engines are much quieter. I stare at the starship in the distance, try to imagine piloting it. The possibility seems like something out of the bounds of reality. I can't pilot a ship. I've never even tried.

"It's a Fury," Quinn chimes in. "An excellent ship, indeed. Very versatile with many applications."

"You know this ship?" I inquire, hopeful. He did mention that he was a decent pilot.

"Yes, My Lord. They are well known to be very responsive to customization and modifications and are used by both civilians of high status and military personnel. I saw many during my various assignments, especially on Balmorra and - "

"You've been to Balmorra?" I interrupt him. It's dark in the shuttle. The pilot has turned off most of the lights on the floor, so I can't make out Quinn's expression. However, my senses tell me he's suddenly nervous. Very nervous.

"Y-Yes…I was stationed there for a short time." He's lying. I don't need the Force to tell me that much. He doesn't say anything else, but my suspicions have been triggered. Why would he hide something like this?

"_Fury_, you said? I don't like that name."

"I agree, My Lord," Vette chirps, excited. She seems oblivious to my exchange with Quinn. "We should give it a better name."

"I don't have such authority. It isn't my ship."

"Oh, come on. If you could name it something, what would it be?"

"I'll need to think on it." I can't see her face very well either, but I suppose that humoring her wouldn't hurt right now. After all, I'm supposed to be trying to get along with these people.

_Don't ask for the impossible._

The thought amuses me, but not enough to take my mind off of Quinn's odd slip-up.

After a few more minutes, the shuttle couples with the _Fury _and we are instructed to board. As we pass through the narrow airlock and step into the center of the ship, I feel a shudder slither down my spine. The grey metal is familiar, but not in a good way. We move from room to room, getting to know the place we'll be calling our primary base of operations for the next several weeks at least.

The ship looked large from the outside, but inside it feels even larger. I try to ignore the dread in my stomach as I explore further, but each sight - the dark hallways, the med bay with the single Kolto tank, and the set of consoles in the cockpit - causes a spring to wind up tighter and tighter in my chest. I'm filled with foreboding, especially when I catch sight of the room meant to be my private quarters. When I touch the ruby red sheets and the soft mattress, I swear that I can see blood already coating the pillows.

_This is it. This is where I was in my dream when..._

"So, have you decided what to name it yet?" Vette startles me. I turn back to see that her eyes are twinkling with excitement. Does this mean that one of these people is the traitor in my dream? I look down and see a small knife strapped to Vette's thigh. Is that the weapon she would use against me? Somehow, I have trouble imagining that this Twi'lek could be capable of the heinous mutilation that I witnessed. Quinn doesn't strike me as the mutilating sort, either. Vengeful, perhaps. I suppose that, given the chance, he might consider striking back at me for what I've done to his career. It wouldn't be logical, however. I'm the only chance he has of getting anywhere with the brand of traitor stamped on his back. He wouldn't risk destroying such an opportunity, would he?

_You can never know a person fully, even through the Force. You should remain vigilant._

"Hello? You alright?" Vette waves a hand in front of my face. "You look kinda pale." Before I can answer, Quinn appears around the corner. His expression remains bland as he speaks.

"My Lord, you must be tired. You aren't fully recovered yet. Perhaps you should rest while I establish a secure connection to Lord Qet." I know I should say something. Remaining silent will sow the seeds of suspicion. Swallowing past the lump in my throat, I say the first thing that comes to mind.

"Omen," I whisper. Vette and Quinn look confused. "It's what I would name this ship."

"Ugh…that's pretty morbid for a ship name," Vette cringes.

"_Omen_ is a good name," I argue, trying to keep my voice free of any of the tension I'm feeling.

"My Lord," Quinn says, "you aren't, by chance, thinking of the _Omen_ that disappeared some years ago during the time of Lord Naga Sadow?" I wasn't, but I'm glad he mentioned something I could use as an excuse.

"Indeed, Quinn. I'm impressed that you would know about that."

"The story always intrigued me during my studies of Sith history. I enjoy the element of mystery surrounding the incident. But, My Lord…Naming this ship after another one that mysteriously disappeared and is presumed to have perished along with its crew…isn't that tempting fate?"

"Dunno what you're talking about, but that does sound pretty creepy..." Vette agrees.

"I am Sith," I reply. "I do not bow down to fate, and I shape my own destiny." The moment that I speak these words, I hope with everything I have that my strength and the Force will help me persevere. I hope that the name I've given this vessel will not guide it to the outcome I witnessed in my nightmare.


	8. ACT I: Chapter 8

**05/25/2016**

**I'm back, everyone! Thank you to those who have read this story and especially to those who have messaged me that they were still waiting for my update. I really appreciate that. It hasn't been my intent to wait so long before writing the next part. School has kept me in a tight grip of worries and problems, so I haven't had much time to write at all. Couple that with me working on publishing my first original novel, and you have a situation that doesn't allow for much free time. **

**I've edited the first 7 chapters before posting this one, weeding out more typos and improving the narrative as much as I can to match my growing writing style. I hope that you guys will enjoy reading this installment as much as I've enjoyed writing it. **

**Hope to hear from you guys!**

**.**

**.**

* * *

**STAR WARS:**

**The Amaranthine Wrath**

* * *

**ACT I:**

**Chapter 8**

* * *

.

Not wishing to waste any time, I instruct Quinn to activate the holocom on the _Omen_'s bridge. It's smaller than the one located in the common area, but I prefer the privacy of this room. Once alone, I dial in Lord Qet's frequency. When his image flickers to life in front of me, I bow my head. Time to start acting like an apprentice, even if I don't want to.

"I am here as you commanded, Master," I say.

The blue light from the holo transmission scatters across the consoles and reflects off the transparisteel of the viewport. Behind it, I see the violet and magenta glow of Dromund Kaas. The planet floats serenely in the distance, a picture of peace and halcyon beauty. This deceptive mask hides all traces of the violent and often brutal ordeals that its inhabitants face on a daily basis both in its jungles and its cities.

_Naturally...because peace is a lie._

"You appear to be in better spirits than before, apprentice," Lord Qet smirks, stroking his chin. His projection is life size. I hate the way he always dwarfs me in height. Even when he's not present in person to torment me with his arrogant bearing, it seems I can't escape it. "Does your new ship please you, then?"

"It isn't mine," I answer, my eyes downcast. "You said so yourself."

"That is correct. I'm glad you haven't forgotten. I'm also glad to see that you've learned your place. This sort of obedience and deference does you credit. Never forget whom you serve."

"Yes, Master." I do my best to sound subservient. It's what Lord Qet expects and an image I'll have to try to maintain from now on. Though it physically hurts to call him by that title, I force myself to appear in all ways like a complacent and subdued apprentice. Now that I see him again, my instinct whispers warnings. I don't know how yet, but I'm sure that Lord Qet has something to do with my nightmare. I'll have to tread carefully from here on out. Tradition frowns upon purposefully killing one's apprentice, but I've known of Sith that haven't hesitated to throw theirs into fatal situations out of disdain and jealousy.

"So the Imperial was able to form a secure connection aboard the ship? Good. That was no easy matter. He will be useful after all." Lord Qet is dressed in formal armor, indicating that he's following Vowrawn around on official business. I know that some Sith would kill for his position - most in my shoes would do anything for a swift promotion to Lordship.

"Yes, Master. Please tell me more about my mission." Lord Qet scrutinizes me for a moment before speaking. I'm sure that my good behavior stirs his suspicious. No matter. If I keep up the façade long enough, he'll grow used to it and forget I ever rebelled. Then, and only then, will I be able to gain his confidence, seek out his weaknesses, and exploit them for my own benefit.

"Is your crew there with you? They'll need to hear this as well."

"No. I've dismissed them."

"Summon them back."

I clench my fist at my side. I don't want them here. I don't want them to find out any more details about this mission than I'm forced to give. The less they know about what I'm doing, the less they will have to use against me as leverage should they choose to stab me in the back.

"Is something wrong, apprentice?"

"No," I reply and press the button on the intercom. "Quinn," I call out, my tone curt and cold. "I need you on the bridge immediately. Bring the slave." I hear my voice echo across the ship.

"Interesting," Lord Qet smiles, still rubbing his chin.

I toss him a venomous glare. "What is?"

"You call the Imperial by his name."

I'm not sure how to answer that. He's picked up on a compulsion that I never understood. I've been calling Quinn by his name since my time on Korriban. I struggle to find a fitting excuse for my actions.

"You've given me orders to make these people a part of my crew. Using their names is logical."

"Do you do the same for the Twi'lek slave?"

"She hasn't earned that privilege," I frown, wondering why he's grilling me like this.

"And the Imperial has?"

"He's shown he can be useful to me."

"I hope you aren't too fond of him," he says. I sense malice in his words. "His usefulness will soon expire, perhaps even after this mission. I hope you remember what use Sith have for a tool that has outlived its purpose."

"None," I respond, my mask firmly in place. I feel him reach out through the transmission and dig around in my head. Only when he retracts his grip do I dare to inwardly gloat. The sun will freeze before I allow anyone to use such pathetic methods to read my mind. Let him draw his own conclusions and theorize about the facts. Let him run around trying to pinpoint any chinks in my armor. I don't have anything to lose aside from my own life; there is nothing I care about more than my own survival. There isn't anything he can possibly use against me.

"Good. Always remember that these people are expendable."

"Yes, Master."

It doesn't take long before someone raps on the sliding doors to the bridge. "My Lord?" Quinn calls out behind the barrier.

"Enter," I command. He obeys, Vette trailing behind him. The Twi'lek's eyes dart around the room, a mesmerized expression on her face. I motion for them to step closer to the projection. On the way, Vette tries to poke at one of the star charts floating above the console. She jumps in surprise when Quinn swats at her hand, muttering a command for her not to touch anything.

"Now that everyone is assembled, we can discuss your purpose, my apprentice. As you know, your destination is Balmorra, a planet located near the Coreward Worlds. You'll be docking at Sobrik Spaceport in a private hangar, where I've arranged for you to be greeted by one of our allies."

"Who?"

"I doubt you would know him. He is a Sith. You two might even get along," he smiles.

I doubt it, but I decide to humor him nonetheless. "What gives you that impression, Master?"

"He is an apprentice in service to a high ranking Sith, much like yourself." Pride accents every syllable. I know that he doesn't mean Vowrawn. "I'm certain he'll share all the details with you once you land. Imperial," he snaps his fingers at Quinn, who steps closer to the projection and bows low. "From what I understand, you are skilled with astronavigation. Plot a course for Balmorra immediately."

"Yes, My Lord."

"Apprentice, your primary objective on this planet is to track down and kill a pair of Imperial defectors." The transmission flickers. Lord Qet's face is replaced by a hologram of two men - one middle-aged and the other much younger.

"Partners in crime?" Quinn ventures.

"No," I reply. "Father and son." My senses hint at their bond while my sharp gaze doesn't miss a single detail. Though the older man's hair is grey, I can see a trace of gold that matches the hue of the younger one's shoulder length hair. Though their eyes are different shades of brown and green, the lines of their jaws share a similar shape and angle.

"Indeed," Lord Qet agrees. "That is correct."

"They are defectors, but there's more to it than that," I observe.

"Your senses are sharp, apprentice," Lord Qet nods. "These men are currently aiding with the underground resistance that defies the Empire's rule of Balmorra."

"Aiding?"

"They began as recruits, but in nearly a year Rylon and Durmat have ascended to a much higher rank. The father now goes by the title of 'Commander' and his son is his second. They are responsible for more than a few Imperial deaths and failures in this ground war."

He's lying. Openly. Testing, perhaps, if I'll call him out on it. For now, I choose not to. "And how do you propose I find them? Where do I start?"

"That is up to you. They've managed to stay below Imperial radar and evade even our Agents. Only a Sith will be able to track them down. Our intelligence indicates that they may not be traveling together for safety reasons. I hope that this will not pose a problem."

"Capture one and his screams of pain will bring the other," I say, already imagining how I'll spring the trap. Despite the fact that something about Qet's words and this assignment reeks of intrigue, I feel excitement stirring in my chest - the thrill of hunting live prey. "I will torture one until he confesses the location of the other or I'll simply use one to draw the other out."

The men's faces disappear. Lord Qet flickers back onto the holo. "Very good, my apprentice. I see that I'm making the correct choice by sending you. I have forwarded all the information you'll need about your mission to your personal datapad. Since we will not be able to communicate until you reach your destination, I expect you to review it in detail. When you've arrived on Balmorra, contact me via holocom. I will be waiting."

"Yes, Master." Lord Qet's projection flares and expires. Anger and annoyance rear their ugly heads. I clench my hand into a fist at my side. Why is Qet circling around this issue? Why the lies and deception? Why can't he just tell me more about what I'm doing in person instead of making me wade through official briefing reports? And why won't we be able to communicate until we reach the planet?

"Hyperspace travel interferes with and makes the majority of conventional communication impossible, My Lord," Quinn says as though he's read my mind. "We'll likely be cut off from all such communications until we arrive." Our eyes meet again; his simmer with the same veiled displeasure that I saw during our exchange back on Dromund Kaas. Nothing has changed just because we're being forced to work together.

"I didn't ask for a lecture, _ex-officer_," I glare at him. "Just do as my Master has commanded and chart our course. How long will it take you?"

"Just a few minutes, My Lord, and we'll be able to jump to lightspeed," he responds, standing at attention.

"Neat," Vette chimes in, cutting through the awkwardness between us. "So this baby comes with a hyperdrive, too? What model is it?" Her words bounce off the walls of the room, echoing in my ears. That too-cheerful tone annoys me like always. However, even that irritation isn't enough to distract me from Quinn and the defiance he's struggling to hide beneath a curtain of formality.

"Get to work, then," I decree. Quinn looks away from me and steps towards the largest panel in the front of the room. He takes a seat in one of the chairs and begins to punch coordinates and calculations into the navigational computer at a stunning rate. I watch him for a while, impressed. I've read that astronavigation is a difficult art to master.

"Yeesh, it's like Hoth in here. What's with the icy mood? Aren't you guys excited at all?"

"It's a starship, Twi'lek," Quinn snaps. "Naturally, it has a hyperdrive. If you've nothing further to add to our mission, then I suggest you go back to your quarters."

She waves at him dismissively and blinks up at me. Her casual demeanor wears on my frayed nerves.

"I seem to recall that I gave you explicit orders not to speak unless spoken to."

"Right, right, Your Lordship. I guess I'll just...be in my room till we get planet-side." She turns to walk away but stops right at the door. As she faces me again, I think that maybe she's remembered her manners. I haven't dismissed her yet, after all. Perhaps she means to apologize. My hopes are dashed, however, when she smiles at me mischievously. "Just don't let blue-eyes over there get us trapped in a gravity well or something like that. As much as I like exploring, I don't want to fall into a black hole anytime soon."

* * *

….

After Quinn assures me that he can handle navigations on his own, I retire to the privacy of my quarters. The moment the door closes behind me and I catch sight of the red sheets on the bed, I frown. The ghostly blood stains on the cloth refuse to disappear, and although I identify them as nothing more than an illusion, the sight still makes me queasy. I try to imagine sleeping here at night - in the darkness when all is silent.

Impossible.

I wish that I could move the bed somehow, but the structure is nailed and welded to the wall. I could pull it off by force. Qet's warning about damaging the ship halts that train of thought. Setting aside my datapad, I tear off the sheets to reveal the black mattress beneath it. Deciding to experiment, I sit down on the edge of the bed and close my eyes.

After a few minutes, my unease still doesn't fade away. My mind refuses to abandon the morbid images from my nightmare. In the end, I end up stepping back and Force manipulating the mattress from the bed to the ground in a corner of the room opposite from the door. I step to the middle of the chamber and check the distance between the corner and the entrance, counting the steps between each point. Glancing upwards, I draw my lightsaber and test the height of the room by swinging it a few times. No matter how I try to condense my movements, the low ceiling restricts me. My Ataru form will be useless in here. I'll have to practice the low-maintenance Shien and make sure I'm comfortable with it should I need to use it to defend myself.

I maneuver the sheets and mattress farther up against the edge of the room. This way, I've got a wall at my back. Whoever intrudes will have to step through the entire room, and I'm certain that by the time they get to me I will feel their presence and be able to fight back. Somewhat satisfied for now, I holster my saber and decide to relax. Getting comfortable on my new bed, I summon the datapad from my nightstand into my hand then kick off my boots, set my lightsabers down beside me, and begin to thumb through Lord Qet's report on the screen. As I feared, it's quite lengthy, and I've been feeling exhausted even since I first set foot on the _Omen. _I try to analyze it as I read, hoping that the action will keep me awake.

_Apprentice, _ \- the report begins.

_This information is given to you in this form because it is classified. You are not to share it with anyone else, including the members of your temporary crew. _ \- So, now they're temporary. Interesting.

_Your purpose on Balmorra is to undermine an operation of a certain Sith, an apprentice to Darth Vengean. - _Darth Vengean? The Dark Council member? I recall seeing the hideous man at my trial.

_His name is Darth Baras, and he has sent his new apprentice on a secret mission to silence Rylon and Durmat. I doubt you will run into each other, but be careful if you do. Publicly, and if questioned, you are on Balmorra at the request of the Dark Council to aid in the war effort. Specifically, I am sending you to track down a group of dangerous war criminals. You will still do as I instructed, but the true objective isn't to kill them - _at this point, my curiosity it piqued. I read through the rest of the report, alert and focused.

_Without your crew or anyone else knowing about it, you are to question them and find out what Darth Baras has assigned them to do in the underground resistance. Yes, apprentice. They aren't defectors. In fact, they are working for Darth Baras as his spies. Normally, we wouldn't consider interfering as they have aided the Empire by destroying a large number of munitions factories key to the rebellion. Not only that, but they continue to provide vital intelligence about the resistance from within. However, we have suspicions that Darth Baras plans to move against our Master, Darth Vowrawn. We must know more about his intentions and any assets he has in play._

_We know exactly where they are. In fact, your tracking them is only a part of the charade. Their coordinates for the next two weeks are within this report. When you find them, you are __**not**__ to kill them. They must go back into Baras's service without any memory of the incident at all. Though I'm sure you could manage it on your own, I've provided a location of a safehouse they can be taken to and interrogated. It's locked down, but I'm certain that the Twi'lek in your service will be able to slice through the security system. There, you will find all the supplies you need to assure their cooperation and to erase their memory afterward. _

_Best of luck, apprentice._

I'm not pleased. My task just got a lot more complicated. I would rather strangle both of these men on the spot than deal with bothersome interrogations. Though I have no doubt that I'll be able to wring the information out of them, I don't understand why I can't just get to the meat of the assignment instead of wasting time. Then I remember Tremel's advice again - the one about moves and countermoves. It seems that there's much more to this than Lord Qet is telling me. Determined to try and read between the lines, I go through the report again. One sentence in particular catches my attention.

..._he has sent his new apprentice on a secret mission..._

There's only one person that can be Darth Baras's new apprentice. I left the Academy without accomplishing mine and Tremel's goals. If all had gone as planned, I would be beside Darth Baras right now. Instead, I'm sure that it's Vemrin that's been chosen. A giddy feeling makes me smile. Could fate have been so kind as to send my nemesis to me directly? Lord Qet mentioned that the chances of us meeting are low, but I hope with all of my being that we do meet. All it takes to improve my sour mood is imagining how good it will feet to finally end him - to feel the candle of his life snuffed out through the Force. I don't even care how it happens as long as mine is the last face he sees as the light leaves his eyes.

_Unless it defies the parameters of the mission._

Concerned, I access my mail and type in a message to Lord Qet. If he tells me to leave Baras's apprentice alone, I'll have no choice but to obey. My personal vendetta might have to be put aside in favor of my mask of subservience. Besides, something about all of this nags at me. Outwardly, this looks like a mission of high importance. I can justify Vowrawn's need to know more about Baras's intentions, especially if the latter plans to strike out against him. However, someone of my skill and caliber on such an assignment makes little sense. Why would Vowrawn stick out his neck for me at the Council if he didn't want a powerful apprentice - if he didn't know about my true power, as I suspect? And if he did, why would he waste my talents on such a simple mission?

_Search your feelings. You know that there is foul play here. Only the Dark Side can help solve this mystery. _

My holocom beeps. As I accept the call, Quinn's projection appears. "My Lord."

"What is it?" I ask.

"I have just finished setting all of the calculations for our trip to Balmorra. We are nearly 19,000 parsecs from our destination. We'll be passing along the Hydian Way. I wanted to be certain that you did not wish to make any stops along the route."

"None. We go directly to Balmorra."

"In that case, the ETA is approximately fourteen hours. I'll be dimming the viewports during travel for safety and, as you know, we will be on radio silence for this duration."

"Good. Contact me when we arrive. Until then, I am not to be disturbed."

"Yes, My Lord." He bows and disappears, ending the call. With a sigh, I set aside the holocom and readjust my posture into one of meditation. My instinct urged me to search my feelings, and I will obey it as I always have. Closing my eyes, I let myself sink into the dark abyss of my consciousness. I relax my body and deaden my nerves to the outside world. The only way I can reach the deepest part of my connection with the Force is to try to leave as much of my physical body behind as possible. This leaves me vulnerable. It's why I made sure to manually lock the door to my quarters as soon as I entered it.

_Manual locks can be overridden by a professional slicer - _my logic argues. _Like that Twi'lek. _

I push the thought away. Now is not the time for such paranoia. I must commune with the Force and try to understand more about my situation. I do as I've been taught, pushing past wordly thoughts and focusing on the emotions that disturb me the most. There are many candidates, but one stands above the rest. Currently, my fear holds the most sway over my destiny. The fear of betrayal - of failure, of disgrace, of losing the only thing that matters to me: my life and thus, my freedom.

I sink deeper; the Vortex greets me. I envision it as a shadowy reflection of myself that stretches out her hands in welcome. She smiles and beckons for me to join her, sending me mental images of carnage, destruction, and dominance. But I have other things to do right now, other tasks I must focus on. In this realm, I can't express my will in words. Instead, I share my insecurities with her through a telepathic bond. She nods, understanding the danger I'm in. As she takes my hand, I understand that we need to revisit my nightmare together. This isn't something I look forward to, but I am Sith, and I refuse to cower before anything.

I nod in agreement, and together we descend even deeper into the abyss.

* * *

…...

...

_**Wake up, Seraphine.**_

_I open my eyes with a start and find myself standing on the bridge of the Omen. Just like my previous nightmare, it's freezing and silent here. I can't hear the life support systems, I can't hear the engines, and I can't hear any movement. Dread washes over me. Pressing a hand to my chest, I feel my sluggish heartbeat. My body wants to panic, but my mind disallows it. I know this is a dream; I need to see it and remember it to keep it from coming true. _

_This time around, I try to capture more details about my surroundings and commit them to memory. Glancing at the consoles, I note the date and time. I don't recognize the planet floating in the viewport, but I remember everything I can about it. I count the four moons that orbit it and read off their names. Moving to the navigation systems, I try to memorize the information there. Coordinates: M-10. Ownership: Empire. Number of daylight hours: fifteen. Full day cycle: thirty two hours. _

_**You will die here.**_

_No, I will not. But I may, unless I pay attention. When I'm satisfied that I've remembered all that I can about the planet, I move on. This time, I know my way around the ship. I go straight to my private quarters. The bed has been made; the mattress is back in place; the sheets are tucked in neatly. Everything is in order except for the blood that soaks the pillows. Something else is different, too. There's a thick blanket covering the mattress. That's when I notice it -_

_The bed isn't empty. _

_A pale hand dangles, limp and bloodied, from under the covers. As I approach it, I my heart rate accelerates. My fingers brush against the crimson cloth. A voice in my head begs me not to lift it, but I do anyway. I expect to see my own mangled body, but what I find instead begets a different kind of dread. Not me. Someone else. My eyes fall to the shock collar around their neck. Burn marks litter the area around the metal. They were tortured - brutally - then mutilated. The horror in their eyes tells a story of prolonged suffering, the kind I myself would only inflict upon a certain type of enemy. A nemesis. _

_**In the other room. **_

_Yes. I can sense the traitor now. I feel their hatred, their lust for my demise. When the bloody footprints appear on the ground, I follow them without hesitation. In the corner of my eye, I see the shadowy body of my Vortex pointing the way. Guided by the pulsing light of the Kolto tank in the medbay, I make my way down the hall. When I reach the door, I pause for a moment, preparing myself for what I'm about to see. Then, I grit my teeth and use the Force to pry open the door. _

_**Look past the atrocities into the eyes of your murderer. **_

_I try, but in the end I'm unable to look away from the gruesome sight of my ravaged body. What's more, I'm still alive, my chest rising and falling with weak breaths. The traitor laughs, running the edge of a blade down my abdomen. The skin splits open; I bring my hands up to cover my mouth to keep from making a sound, watching my dream self strain against a set of shackles on my wrists. _

_Force shackles. _

_My worst nightmare. _

_The traitor hums as they work, first carving patterns into my flesh then cutting deeper, reaching inside and..._

_**Focus. **_

_"Do you like that? Should I make a dress out of your skin? I've always wanted to wear it. You're so beautiful. I've always been so jealous of you." The traitor leans over my future self and whispers something in her ear that makes her groan. "No? Then shall I scalp you and wear your hair as a wig instead? Perhaps I could even become you. What do you think? Will anyone will miss you, little Seraphine?" _

_**Focus!**_

_A molten hot volcano of anger erupts inside me. I want to wipe this person off the face of the galaxy. They're touching me. They've tied me up. They've rendered me helpless. My vision turns hazy, filling with red. The traitor unsheathes a longer knife and begins to cut off my hair. No. No. No...this can't be happening. I have to do something. _

_**FOCUS!**_

_At last, I see the traitor's face. First, I catch sight of a pair of blue Lekku. "Does that hurt, Your Lordship?" Then, the features shift and the Twi'lek becomes a human man with blue eyes. "You shouldn't fight me, My Lord. It will only hurt more if you fight." Then the face changes again into Lord Qet's. "Incredible, apprentice. I'm amazed that you are still alive. Shall we try a different knife?" Over and over again, the faces change until even Tremel's makes an appearance. Each has something terrible to say, each has a reason to hate me. I feel sick. I want to get out of here. This is too much. The thought that every one of these people are ready to backstab me is unbearable. Is there no one I can rule out? Is there no one that will stand beside me? _

_**No one,**_ my shadowy self replies. Her silver eyes glow in the darkness._** You must always stand alone.**_

* * *

…

I snap out of my meditation and gasp. My lungs are on fire. I fall forward onto the mattress beneath me, breathing in and out raggedly. I feel as though I was drowning and barely made it to the surface. I'm soaked in sweat. Reaching out, I call to my Vortex, only calming down when I feel its reassuring presence. My hand wraps around the hilt of one of my sabers. I jump to my feet and look around the room. My thoughts churn in a disorienting hurricane -

_Remember what you saw. Remember the details. _

Something is ringing. Dizzy, I look around and finally locate the source. It's my holocom. I press the switch for audio only, unwilling to let the caller see me in such a state.

"My Lord," Quinn's voice streams over the transmission.

"I thought I gave explicit instructions not to be disturbed," I grind out. My voice is low and husky. I'm thirsty, too. For some reason, I feel that I haven't spoken in a while.

"Yes, My Lord, unless we arrived on Balmorra."

"And? Why are you bothering me, then?"

"Because we've arrived, My Lord." I hear something _pinging_ in the background. "I estimated the trip to take about fourteen hours. We've arrived in thirteen and a half."

"I see," I mumble through my dizziness. I can't believe what he's saying. It's been that long?

"My Lord, is everything alright?"

I realize that he must have picked up on how strange I sound. Not good. "Everything is fine. I will join you on the bridge shortly."

"Understood, and - " Without waiting for him to finish the sentence, I press the button to end the call. Putting away my lightsaber, I drag myself to the door that leads to the bathroom and turn on the shower. My skin hurts. The sensation reminds me of the aches I used to get during training on Ziost. Back when I was first learning how to use the Force, I experienced some pain and discomfort in my body until I discovered how to know and extend my limits. When I look in the mirror, I see that my eyes have changed from silver to orange and my skin looks paler than normal. I went too far with my meditation, I surmise. I've reached too deep and spent too much of my strength. Now, before anyone can see me in this state, I'll have to work to recover.

Cursing, I strip off my armor and enter the shower. The hot water feels incredible and soon washes away my exhaustion. I untie my hair and let the water run through it, running through the details I remember from my dream step by step. The last thing I saw can't be considered reliable information. Most likely, it's a manifestation of my self-doubt and uncertainty. I must focus on the smaller things, like the date on the navcomputer and the planet that I saw. Something else of importance was revealed as well - the dead body I on my bed. Try as I might, I can't recall who it was, but I sense it was someone I know.

* * *

….

...

It takes me over and hour to calm my raging emotions and erase the corruption from my body. By the time my eyes return to their normal color and I make it to the bridge, my crew gives of an aura of impatience. Quinn summoned the Twi'lek girl to join us, and judging by the way their eyes clash, they've been arguing. Quinn informs me that several messages await my attention.

"Why are the viewports still dimmed?" I ask, pointing to the windows.

"I was going to ask if I should raise them, My Lord, but our conversation was cut off."

I see. He's referring to the way I hung up on our holocall. "In the future, don't bother me with such trifles. Raise them."

"Yes, My Lord," Quinn complies. As the shades begin to lift, I hear Vette snicker.

"Somebody got scolded," she hums. Because I want to get on solid ground as soon as possible and because I don't think that maiming the Twi'lek will help that, I choose to let her impertinence slide. For now.

"Transfer all messages to my holocom and datapad. I will examine them once we are planet-side. How long until we land?"

"I'll make contact with Sobrik right away, My Lord. No more than an hour, I'm sure."

"Again, in the future I expect you to carry out your duties without asking me about every single little thing. You know that our time is limited. You don't need my permission to land this ship. Every hour wasted endangers the success of our mission." I glare down at Vette. "I won't put up with any nonsense, including personal spats and arguments. I expect you both to work together without compromising the assignment."

Quinn formally agrees while Vette nods. I hear her mutter something under her breath about bossy Sith. The shades lift the rest of the way and reveal the scenery outside. My breath catches in my throat. Now that I've been in the same nightmare twice, I will never forget the planet inside it. In fact, it looked just like this. My eyes roam over the white clouds, azure atmosphere, and sprawling continents. I step over to the navigation systems and scroll through the information to find the coordinates. Everything matches up, even the diagram of the four moons that orbit it.

Balmorra.

So, this is it.

The place where I'm going to be violently betrayed by someone I know. The stage is set, the pieces are in motion and - I glance at the date on the nav computer - I only have two weeks to find out who.


	9. ACT I: Chapter 9

**05/26/2016**

**Please be aware that the last chapter was posted yesterday. **

**If you haven't caught up on it, you might be very confused about what's happening in this chapter ^_^**

**.**

**.**

* * *

**STAR WARS:**

**The Amaranthine Wrath**

* * *

**ACT I:**

**Chapter 9**

* * *

.

.

. .

War is carved into the face of Balmorra like an ugly tattoo, ravaging the land and those that live here. From the moment I step onto the polished grey floors of Sobrik Spaceport, I feel an aura of sadness, desperation, and hopelessness permeate the air. A cloak of it wraps around every person I pass, their heads bowed, their shoulders hunched, and their faces pale with exhaustion.

I've seen plenty of images of the galaxy's wars during my studies, depictions of patriotic soldiers, pitiable refugees, determined Moffs, and noble Sith who guide them. Such propaganda is far from the truth, I now realize. There are no refugees here, no aliens or miserable waifs trying to find their way off-world, no Moffs, and hardly any officers. I don't see any Sith, either. In fact, I barely notice any true patriots. At least, the type of selfless servants of the Empire described in our texts. These men and women wear a stigma of reluctance stamped on their foreheads; I don't need the Force to tell me that they would rather be anywhere else.

I sense the resentment in their hearts and the frustration in their minds. This kind of attitude doesn't meet my expectations. I recall the passion with which Tremel defended the Empire and its cause. What was he defending? What was at the heart of his convictions? These Imperials don't look like they're fighting with purpose. In fact, it looks more like they're being coerced into performing their duties. I wonder if this is the reality behind the illusion that we're exposed to every day. Even so, it seems so contradictory to what I've been taught that I have to question my own powers of observation.

_What did you expect? Did you think soldiers ran around shouting 'Glory to the Empire'?_

Perhaps I did. At least, on some level.

Confused, I turn to the only other righteous defender of the Empire I know. "Quinn, you said that you were stationed on Balmorra previously. Has it always been like this?"

"Like what, My Lord?" he asks.

No words come to mind sufficient to describe what I'm seeing. "These Imperials don't seem too happy to be here," I reply with a frown.

"Well, Balmorra isn't exactly a choice assignment," he observes, rubbing at his neck. The skin there is red and irritated. No doubt the inflammation comes from the shock collar. His cryptic response doesn't tell me much about the situation, but I decide to let the topic drop. I'm sure I'll find out more later. For now, I have to focus the assignment that brought me to this miserable planet.

Quinn doesn't seem out of place here. In fact, he knows exactly where to go to check in after we land. Though he ducks his head occasionally - almost as though he fears being recognized - he leads the way to a set of terminals and computers situated in a remote corner of the station. As soon as I enter my name into the list of arrivals, I'm hailed on my personal holocom by an unfamiliar frequency. I try to decide if this is the Sith contact I'm meant to work with during my stay here or if Lord Qet has simply grown impatient. I spoke to him via holo after we arrived, and judging by his stern tone of voice, the man wants this assignment completed yesterday.

"The line should be secure here, My Lord," Quinn says, mistaking my hesitation for concern. "However, I would be cautious about using the holocom outside the spaceport."

"Noted," I reply and push the button to receive the call. A light flickers on the screen, and a man appears above it dressed in tasteful black armor. Slim and muscular, something about his figure reminds me of a Vorn tiger on the hunt. He adjusts something on the controls, bringing his projection into clearer focus. His deep red skin and pitch black hair are the second things I notice, followed by a pair of hypnotic golden eyes.

A Pureblood.

"Welcome to Sobrik Spaceport," he says in a formal tone. "My name is Cytharat, and I will be your liaison here on Balmorra."

"Greetings," I respond, surprised that he so casually shared his name with me. Then again, I have to remind myself that I'm not at the Academy anymore. Sith outside Academy walls don't show open hostility towards each other like the acolytes on Korriban. Most conflicts between them occur behind the scenes - assassinations behind closed doors and betrayals in dark corridors. I attempt to keep this development and the fact that I need to cooperate with this man in mind. "I…am Seraphine," I add with some awkwardness.

"I am honored to meet an apprentice of Lord Qet and Darth Vowrawn. My Master forwards his greetings and respects to them."

"Who is your Master?" I ask, curious.

"Darth Malgus. He brought me out of the Academy a short time ago. Like you, this is my first assignment."

"Perhaps we should discuss this in person. My crew has warned me that Sobrik may not be a secure location for conversations like this."

"I agree. That is why I have arranged a taxi for you. The droid will take you to Troida Military Workshop, where we can speak freely. It's currently my main base of operations. I apologize that I could not meet you in person. Things have taken a drastic turn here in the past several weeks."

"I understand. We will take the taxi and be on site shortly." He nods and ends the call. When we step outside, a silver droid guides us towards the taxi terminal. However, instead of leading us to the general transport, the machine takes us to a private landing pad.

"Departure approved by high command, My Lord," the droid informs me. "You may leave at your leisure." I'm surprised to see that Cytharat has arranged for a low altitude shuttle rather than a standard car. I tense as we climb into the small stuffy cabin. Glancing around, I notice no driver.

"Well this is inconvenient," I mutter, my eyes roving over the plethora of buttons and switches in the pilot's seat.

"But safer, My Lord."

I turn to Quinn, who examines the cockpit with a practiced eye. He catches sight of my raised eyebrow and hurries to explain.

"Resistance strike teams have been known to target both civilian and military taxis before. Those who could afford it began to use these shuttles due to their ability to fly out of range of most artillery fire."

"I hope you can pilot one of these, Quinn."

"I've done so on a few occasions. They are very similar to - "

I hold up my hand. "Yes or no?"

"Yes."

"Good, then get in. We don't have any time to waste."

"Of course, My Lord."

"This thing's like a tin can," Vette comments as she raps on the wall with her knuckles. A hollow metallic sound echoes in the cabin. "Wouldn't take much to blow a hole through the hull."

"We'll be passing through a danger zone on the way, so I suggest you sit down and buckle up, Twi'lek," Quinn says.

"Are you teasing me, blue-eyes, or did someone shove a stick up your butt this morning?"

"Silence," I command, glaring at them both. "From here onwards, we are on assignment. I expect you to behave responsibly."

"I'm not the one picking a fight," Vette says, holding up her hands. "Just point the way, and I'll shoot the baddies, Your Lordship."

"Would you like to sit up here, My Lord?" Quinn offers, ignoring Vette's remarks. He points to the second pilot's seat. I suppose it wouldn't hurt to watch him as he works. Depending on anyone for anything doesn't suit my palate; I've been too reliant on Quinn's skills lately. Now that I'm an official apprentice, it's time I started learning how to pilot, at least on a basic level. I strap myself in and watch Quinn mashing various buttons and switches, trying to memorize the procedure. In my head, I hear Lord Qet's ominous prediction that this man's use may expire after the mission. If that's in any way true, then it's even more crucial that I learn how to do these things as quickly as possible.

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_Your doom is coming._

About half way through our trip, my skin breaks out in goosebumps. Something isn't right. On edge, I look out the windows to get a clearer view of our surroundings, but no matter which way I turn I can only see the same dull landscape that we've been passing for nearly half an hour. Our shuttle zooms through funnels of billowing smoke, a result of weapons factories and artillery fire. Conflict and industry have torn apart this land over the years, carving fiery scars into it in the forms of craters and scorched earth. Debris litters the plains: broken droids, fallen ships, rubble from buildings, empty bomb casings, and other evidence of bitter warfare. This area is, according to Quinn, one of the hot zones where most skirmishes and confrontations take place. He's taken us to a higher altitude so that we stay out of turret range.

_Death is swift on your heels._

I know. My bones shudder with it. Something above us lures my attention. I examine a long red handle hanging from the roof, its edges painted red.

"What is that?" I ask, pointing to it.

"It's the lever to the maintenance hatch, My Lord."

"Can it be opened from inside the cabin?"

"Yes, but I wouldn't recommend it while the ship is moving," he answers, a hint of sarcasm in his voice. "Why do you ask, My Lord?"

I don't answer him. Instead, I lean back and close my eyes, trying to calm my racing heart. I think back to what Quinn said about taxis being attacked by pockets of the Resistance fighters. "Quinn…we're being followed." His eyes widen and he glances at the radar screen, punching in a few codes. He changes the view several times and adjusts the range with a frown. Even a layman like myself can tell that the monitor reveals no threat.

"But, My Lord…are you certain?"

"Machinery can fail. The Force cannot. We are being followed." I close my eyes again and stretch out my senses. At first, I can't detect anything except for Quinn and Vette's presence. I push deeper, reaching out as far as I can.

_Bombs and turrets do not have a will of their own. Search for those who do. _

I sift through a multitude of auras now, ignoring the ambience of wildlife and other forces of nature. In the darkness, the land shares its woes with me. Balmorra hurts. The land screams and writhes in agony, suffocating and choking on the pain of those who die upon it. Through the Force, it begs for help. I turn away and tune out its pleas, seeking a logical reason for my earlier unease. The problems of the land aren't my concern; I'll leave such entanglements to Jedi and their ilk.

"Are there any offensive vehicles this size that might have cloaking devices?" I murmur.

"None that would normally - " Quinn begins, but Vette cuts him off.

"Actually, there might be." I keep my eyes closed, still searching the Force for the typical violence that comes with killing intent. Behind me, Vette opens the door to the cockpit and leans in so she can be heard. "I saw something like that once on a trip to Hutta. Some bounty hunters were talking about modifying shuttles with missile launchers and stealth cloaks."

"Don't be ridiculous, Twi'lek," Quinn sneers. "The military wouldn't rely on such unpredictable technology."

"This isn't the military, blue-eyes," she snaps back with equal hostility. "If we're being followed, then it's not anyone official."

"We aren't being followed…"

_It approaches. Prepare yourself._

The ship lurches sideways. An explosion right beside my window sends the our shuttle into a mid-air spin. Vette screams as she's thrown out of her seat. I hear her body hit the cabin walls a few times. If Quinn and I weren't strapped in, we'd be hurtling through the glass. Chaos breaks out. A series of alarms blare ear-piercing warnings. The entire console lights up in red. Screens flash. I smell smoke. Quinn's jaw visibly clenches as he digs his hands into the controls and does his best to even us out. My stomach drops; I'm going to be sick. Stars, I hate flying.

"What happened?" I demand to know as soon as we're level again. I hear Vette groaning in the back. A part of me wants to slip out of my seat and look at the damage we've sustained, but another part tells me that if we're hit again the seatbelt is the only thing that will save my life. Quinn isn't responding; his entire focus is on the console. I can feel his heart and thoughts racing just as quickly and frantically as my own. The radar pulses with crimson, littered with dots that surround us. With every second, more and more dots appear. This almost looks like an -–

"Ambush," Quinn says, a bead of sweat forming on his brow. "Looks like they were waiting for us."

"I thought you said this shuttle was safe," I toss at him.

"_Safer_," he emphasizes. "These sorts of attacks aren't unprecedented, but I've never seen one so organized."

"What defenses does this ship have?"

"None, My Lord. This shuttle isn't meant for anything but quick transport. It doesn't even have shields for atmospheric travel."

"No weapons either, I suppose."

"None."

Twisting in my seat, I turn to look behind us, but no amount of maneuvering grants me a clear view of our enemies. I hear a commotion in the back. Vette pokes her head into the cockpit, a nasty bruise darkening her temple. Her lip is bloodied; she's in pain. That shouldn't bother me. Why should I care about the wellbeing of a slave? I rush to justify the urge by telling myself that I need everyone functional and able to assist in making sure we survive.

"Well this is a farking mess," Vette grumbles and wipes the blood off her mouth with the edge of her sleeve.

"How severe are your injuries?" I ask.

"Just a few bruises," she replies with a smile. Her emotions spike, eyes flooding with unexpected softness. Seeing –- and feeling –- such kindness directed my way makes me inwardly cringe. My throat constricts as though I've swallowed something sour. My eyes narrow.

"Don't make the mistake of thinking I care," I say hastily. "I'm assessing the situation to understand our options."

"Of course," she mumbles, the warmth fading from her violet orbs. Foolish child. I look back at the console. Why am I making excuses, anyway? Why does it matter so much to me if she thinks that I give a damn about her condition?

"Can you bring us closer to the ground, blue-eyes?" Vette asks.

"I can, but I have a feeling that that's what they want us to do. There might be something worse waiting for us down below." I'm surprised at how calm he sounds. Though he's sweating and a crease marrs his brow, he remains in control of his panic. This isn't his first aerial battle. Vette starts to say something else when another explosion –- this time from the other side –- throws our tiny shuttle into a nose dive. Something jerks and snaps off the external hull. My head spins. Smoke billows from one of our engines. The glass above us shatters, sending sharp fragments flying everywhere. I bring up my hands to shield my eyes and see Vette duck down.

A strong wind nearly unseats me. Anything not welded or nailed down goes flying out of the gap in the glass. Another alarm goes off, this time warning us of the damage to the structural integrity of our vehicle. Vette clutches the back of my seat for dear life. Behind her, I spot a gaping hole that's been punctured in the cabin. The fluctuation in pressure rips some of the seats away and hurls them outside. The sky disappears as the ship flips over. Up merges with down; I lose all sense of direction. It only takes a blink before the ground is all I can make out. It's flying, moving at blinding speed towards us. There, I see the death my instinct spoke of -– our doom.

"Pull up, Quinn," I say, using sheer willpower to keep my voice even. We're dropping altitude fast. At this rate, we'll soon hit the ground and explode. "Pull up!"

"Trying," he hisses, his fingers flying all over the controls. Our enemies fire turrets at us. The beams riddle the ship with more holes. The scent of melted metal and burning plasteel is revolting.

"Reroute power from the fourth engine!" Vette shouts, her blue Lekku flapping in the wind. "It's still intact!"

Quinn mashes a few more buttons and pulls a switch. We wait. Nothing happens. The longer we fall, the faster we spin. Then, a miracle. The shuttle groans as Quinn manages to pull it out of a 90 degree fall. We're still plummeting, but at least we've stopped spinning.

"Use the nose thrusters!" Vette shouts, pushing the door to the cockpit open the rest of the way and pressing herself fully against my seat. The cabin is a lost cause now. If she has any hope of staying inside the ship, she's got to lock the door. "If you turn those on, we might be able to slow down!"

Quinn flips another switch. Sparks fly from the nose of the ship. With some dread, I note that the area is scorched and covered in dents. "They shot through them," he replies, raising his voice. "We're losing altitude too quickly. Even if I reroute power from the fourth engine, it won't be enough to counter our momentum."

The blaring of the alarms is overwhelming, yet with each ring of the sensors, my focus sharpens. I'm no stranger to near-death experiences. In such situations, I must forgo raw fear and listen to the Force. I close my eyes and tug at my Vortex. I'm not alone. I'm not helpless.

_This isn't over. _

No. It isn't.

My senses tell me what I have to do. Quinn's eyes widen when I snap open my seatbelt. "My Lord!" he shouts. "What are you doing?"

"Strap in, " I say, pulling Vette forward by the scruff of her shirt. I maneuver her into my seat. "Quinn, how do I open the maintenance hatch?" He doesn't reply. His face has lost all color. He's afraid to let go of the controls or look away from the consoles. I sense his hopelessness; I can almost see it blinding him. "Quinn!"

"My Lord, wait…" He's confused and disoriented. It's all he can do to keep the ship steady. The ground moves closer. Unless I do something, we'll all die. I can already see it in my mind – the image of our small shuttle ramming into the ground at full tilt, the explosion swallowing us whole and burning us alive. I reject this outcome, refuse it with every fiber of my determination. I no longer need Quinn to tell me anything. Holding up my hand, I blast open the maintenance hatch and pull Force to my feet, using it to help me balance despite the chaotic pushes and pulls of gravity. Using newfound momentum, I crouch down then jump through.

"Are you insane?" Vette yells from bellow. "You'll die!"

One of our wings is in flames. Cold wind mixes with volcanic fumes from the fire out here, ramming into me like a tidal wave. The force of it nearly throws me off into nothingness, but I manage to catch myself on the top fin of the shuttle and hold on. Above us, I see the attacking ships herding us downward in formation. Quinn was right. They weren't trying to destroy us in the sky; they meant for us to crash, perhaps hoping that our ship bore supplies they could salvage. Digging my feet into a pair of holes in the hull, I bring up my hands and close my eyes.

The Vortex shifts in my thoughts, stirring awake. I don't know if I'll need its power right now, but I call it nevertheless. Our shuttle is small relative to other ships, but I've never attempted to move anything of its size before. I can't have any doubt about what I'm doing. I must be confident. I must _know_ that this will work. The air whips at my armor and my hair, cold and piercing. I will myself to sense it, to sense everything – the air, the wind, the sky, the ship, the ground. The Force moves into me, around me, through me, _within_ me. Now, I must exert control over it; I must wrap it around the ship and pull. The air must merge with the wind; the ground must push me back, not pull me down.

I sense my crew. I feel their emotions and their desperation. Fear and terror blind Quinn, paralyzing him and weakening his mind with doubt and uncertainty. This break in his armor is all I need to penetrate his thoughts. As soon as I enter that abyss, I'm thrown into a hurricane of confusion. I don't have time to look for anything specific. I wouldn't be able to even if I tried, for I know nothing of piloting a ship. However, I can give him an idea of what I need him to do. I try to share the image that I have in my own thoughts. I can pull up the ship, but I need him to help me do it. Whatever he can do to resist the pull of gravity will help immensely. Words come to me through his thoughts…

_Reverse thrusters, drag fins, emergency chute…_

Whatever it takes. Do it.

Then, I slip away, back towards my own mind again to the bond between earth and sky. Gravity fights me with savage fervor. Bring it on. I fear nothing with the Force at my side. It will break anything that stands in its way. My Vortex shudders, begging to be unleashed. Not yet. I'm not desperate enough yet. Clenching my hands into fists, I pull. The ship shudders. Metal moans screeches as it twists and bends. Gravity pulls on it from one end while I try to shatter its grip from the other. I feel its outrage as though it is a living being, and I understand it. It's furious, for I am defying the natural way of things. I am violating its peace, its neutrality, its very existence. If I were a Jedi, perhaps I would reconsider at this point. But, I am no meek and neutral entity who seeks order. My pride swells, the Dark Side coming closer and closer.

I am Sith – I cry out in my mind. I am the epitome of chaos! I am the bringer of pandemonium to all, especially the Force. There is _nothing_ I cannot accomplish.

This time, when the ship levels out and decelerates, I do not label it a miracle. To call it such would be blasphemy. No. This is _my _accomplishment. This is _my_ victory. This is yet another sign from fate that I am superior in every way. Superior and exceptional -– remarkable and unrivaled. When the wind pulls at my hair and tries to push me back, I laugh. I am victorious! Me, who violates the laws of nature and spits on its rules. Me, who lives for moments of glory just like this.

Above me, I hear the whirring of engines. Below me, Vette calls out in distress. The ships that thought to destroy us approach us now with haste. My senses soar. I feel closer and more attuned to the Force than I've ever been. I can feel the pilots in those ships; I can taste their anger. They plan a second attack. Fools. They have no idea what they're dealing with.

_Release me. Unleash me. Unlock me. Let me devour them. Let me spill their entrails like ribbons among the clouds, _my Vortex whispers.

Not now. Not yet. I will not make the Vortex my crutch, only my ultimate weapon. For now, my own power is more than enough. As soon as I feel that our shuttle can move on its own without my assistance, I let go of it. The emergency chute pops open behind us. The shuttle flounders in the air for a moment before Quinn levels it out. The ship above me aims a set of missiles at us. The pilot wants to see me dead. Pathetic. Raising my hand, I lash out with a wave of Force, wrapping it around the missiles and squashing them as though they were made of air. A magnificent explosion lights up the skies. The missiles rip open the attacking ship. The fire spreads, hitting three others and blowing them to smithereens. My eyes drink in the sight with a cold-blooded hunger. I thrill in the pilots' silent screams, in the way the Force shudders as their lives fade away. The rest of the ships scatter, flying in the opposite direction.

My veins are on fire. I want more death. I yearn for more destruction. It's not enough.

"Can you land it?" I hear Vette shout from below, snapping me out of my trance.

"I think so," I hear Quinn reply. I reign in my fury with immense difficulty. My hands tremble as I climb back down into the cockpit. Alarms continue howling in warning; the screens are still flashing. My head spins; my temples throb in agony; my body aches. I sit down behind the pilot's seat and catch my reflection in a stray piece of metal.

"That was amazing," Vette breathes, turning to look at me. "I've never – holy Sith!" She clamps a hand over her mouth. Her violet orbs widen, her skin losing color. "Your eyes…what's wrong with your eyes?"

"What is it?" Quinn asks, still focused on the console.

"Her eyes…and her skin...they're…"

"The corruption of the Dark Side," I respond nonchalantly.

"Are you alright? Are you hurt?" she asks. That soft expression comes over her face again, the one I'm growing to dread. My hostility and anger churn on the surface of my awareness. I'm unable to pull them back any more than I already have.

"Don't look at me like that," I warn her. "Your concern is wasted on me."

"You saved our lives," she insists. "I just…"

"I saved _my_ life, first and foremost. That _you_ were saved is a consequence, not a primary intent."

"Well, thanks anyway," she beams. I'm at a loss. No matter how much negativity I throw at this girl, she bounces right back.

"Quinn, how long until we reach the Workshop?"

"About fifteen minutes, but I don't think the shuttle will last, My Lord. We need to land immediately."

"That's fine, as long as - " I'm cut off when I sense another disturbance in the Force. It's a presence that I've never felt before -– strong, proud, and powerful. I sit up and prop myself up on one of the pilot seats to look out through the hatch. Two ships surround us, much larger than those of the Resistance attackers from before. I hear the transmission ping before a familiar voice crackles over the intercom.

"My Lord, this is Cytharat. Please land, and we will assist you. Is anyone injured?"

I sag against the hatch with some relief. Though I would have fought them to the death if they were attackers, I acknowledge that I've pushed my limits for the next several hours. I slide back down into the cockpit and mash the button for communication. "Cytharat, we're alright. Our injuries are minor. We will land immediately." A strong _whoosh_ startles me. Something powerful smacks the side of the ship.

"They're dousing the fire on the wing," Quinn explains. "Hang on, My Lord. This landing won't be smooth."

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"We received your distress signal and rushed to intercept the attack," Cytharat explains as we enter the Workshop. "I'd hoped that the Resistance wouldn't assault a low altitude shuttle, but as their supplies dwindle, they grow desperate."

The Troida Military Workshop looms above me, sporting three entire floors full of soldiers, weapons, combat droids, and other technology. Cytharat explains that they've modified the bottom level into a hangar where they store enough ships and ground vehicles for strategic incursions. He's understated that part. This place looks ready for a massive scale war. I wonder what Cytharat's assignment here is. Is he fighting the Resistance alone? He mentioned that the conflict had taken a desperate turn. What did he mean?

"I regret that it took us so long to find you," Cytharat says, inclining his head.

"Those pilots were no match for a Sith," I decree, raising mine.

"Indeed. My men and I witnessed your power from a distance. I've never seen anything like it." His voice softens. He's impressed; my ego is boosted. "A few of my guards escorted your companions to the med bay. You mentioned that no one was injured…"

"I sent them away so that we could speak privately."

"In that case, please follow me." We take an elevator to the third floor. During the ride, I examine my contact in more detail. He's tall, much like the majority of Purebloods that I've met. I search his intentions, expecting to find some form of resentment or rivalry. I'm surprised, however, when I find he's calm and collected. I feel no hostile vibes from him. Although this reassures me, I still don't trust him. Back on the _Omen_, I made a personal resolution to treat everyone I meet as the potential traitor in my dream. I haven't come up with a possible motive for this man yet, but I'm sure I'll find one.

"I need to know something," I say as we leave the elevator. He nods and pushes a button to open a sliding door in the hallway. He's led me to his private office, a room secluded from the rest of the building. One wall is made entirely of transparisteel. From this height, I see a large portion of the massive factory below.

"What did my Master tell you about this mission, Cytharat? How are you to assist me?"

"Straight to business, I see," he smirks. The expression unnerves me. I'm reminded of Thanna and her odd behavior on the day of my trial. Just like that time, I'm tempted to smile back.

_This man could be your enemy_ \- my logic warns.

"Lord Qet is not a patient man," I say out loud.

"So I've heard," he nods. "To answer your question, though, I've been made aware of the true parameters of your mission. I have a series of coordinates where you can find your targets and I am working on securing the safehouse where you are to interrogate them. I'll have some of my men deliver the SLV-16 serum you will be using for this purpose in the next few days."

"Good," I sigh, rubbing at my temple. "I'm relieved that I won't have to play my Master's games with _you_, at least. My crew on the other hand…"

"Games?" His eyes widen marginally, his head tilting a little to the side.

"Yes. My Master wishes me to run around the countryside like a bounty hunter or Imperial agent, pretending that I'm searching for my targets," I sneer. "Personally, I see this as a waste of valuable time."

"I understand. My Master also gives me such conditions for some of the things I do here."

"What _do_ you do here?" I ask.

"I've been assigned to take charge of the conflict in preparation for the arrival of Darth Lachris. She was once Darth Marr's apprentice and has earned much rapport with the Dark Council in recent times. They believe she has the power to end the war here and re-establish the Empire's dominance on Balmorra once and for all." His face remains relaxed as he speaks. I find his voice somehow soothing and feel almost...safe...in his presence for reasons I can't explain. This feeling, while pleasant, raises my hackles. I'm concerned that he might be trying to manipulate me somehow. Yet, no matter how many times I explore his emotions, I don't sense even an ounce of hostility or ulterior motives.

"You said that the conflict took a desperate turn. What did you mean?"

"I've been able to make some progress in various 'hot zones' much like this one. We've destroyed several munitions factories and droid production plants that the Resistance was using to their advantage. As a result, they've lost provisions and vital power sources."

"Rylon and Durmat are responsible for some of that success," I point out.

"Yes. It is unfortunate that they must be taken out of the action for a while. They've been a tremendous asset to our cause."

"Sith power games," I frown. "It seems that, in this case, they weaken the Empire." The words tumble out before I can stop them. As soon as I realize what I've said, I tense up, expecting retribution. My complaint may have sounded contradictory - even treasonous to some extent - since Sith are considered the unquestionable rulers here. I glance at Cytharat to gauge his reaction.

"You are very honest, Lord Seraphine," he concludes. My heart skips a beat. I am unprepared for someone to say my name like this. Not only that, but he added a title that I haven't earned yet. I blink up at him. "Don't worry, I share your sentiments. Perhaps before coming here, I would not have been able to. But, I've been a part of this conflict for long enough now that I can see how your mission jeopardizes our efforts here."

"You say my name so casually," I observe with a frown.

"You use mine. Am I not allowed the same privilege?"

"I am not a Lord yet."

"But you will be. I can sense it."

"Your confidence in my skill fascinates me," I reply sarcastically.

"And your eyes fascinate _me. _Such an unusual color for a human. They were different when I first saw you."

"During the attack, I..."

"The corruption, yes. I thought that you may have been hurt, but it seems you've recovered your strength." Something about this conversation feels out of place. Understanding and genuine concern aren't sentiments I often encounter. I look into Cytharat's eyes. For the first time in years, I can honestly say that I'm flustered. Fortunately, I'm saved from my floundering by a call on my holocom. I check the frequency and answer, relieved to have an excuse to slip away from this awkward discussion.

"What is it, Quinn?"

"My Lord, I am calling to ask about our orders. Are we meeting you somewhere after the med bay?"

I glance at a nearby clock and note the time of day. It's almost evening. I doubt that I can accomplish much tonight, and I'll need to rest after the ordeal on the shuttle. A part of me doesn't want to. I want to get this assignment over with as quickly as possible.

"You and the Twi'lek are dismissed until tomorrow. I will go out with Cytharat's men to gather intelligence on our targets." I check the time again. "Call me in exactly fifteen standard hours to discuss how we will proceed."

"Understood, My Lord."

I end the call and pocket my holocom.

"We are going out?" Cytharat asks.

I shake my head. "No. We're staying here. You're going to give me every bit of data you have on my targets so that I can study and memorize it. My Master wants me to do this a certain way, and I have no choice but to obey him. However, I won't waste time pretending to be hunting for information when I can utilize what we have for better things."

"You don't wish to rest?"

"I don't have time for such a luxury at the moment, and," I cross my arms over my chest, "I'm too restless after the battle."

"Might I make a suggestion, Lord Seraphine?"

I wonder how long it will take me to get used to the sound of my own name.

"We have a large training facility here." He glances at the lightsabers on my hips. "After I show you the data, would you like to spar together?"

His offer catches me off-guard. As does his smile.

_He looks rather charming when he isn't so serious. _

I suddenly look forward to the idea of testing my skills against his. This seems entirely inappropriate and out of bounds of a working relationship, but my pride can't resist the call to arms. Darth Malgus's apprentice. I've heard much of his Master and his prowess in combat. If he trained him, then there is much I could learn. This should be interesting.

"Indeed, _Lord_ Cytharat," I reply, adding a title to his name as well. Two can play this game. "That sounds like a fine use of our free time."


	10. ACT I: Chapter 10

**Totally new and never before seen chapter! Yay :D If you enjoy the read, please drop me a line. Your comments really make my day ^_^**

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**Star Wars: The Amaranthine Wrath**

**ACT I: Chapter 10**

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Cytharat makes good on our bargain. Each curious about the other's abilities, we rush to test ourselves against each other. Though, what begins as a friendly spar between us quickly escalates into a violent battle for superiority. From the moment that I first saw this Pureblood in person, I knew his pride matched my own in zeal. After speaking with him and sensing that his outlook on this mission and our Masters' whims mirrored my own, we formed a faint connection through the Force. The bond wasn't a voluntary one. My paranoia screamed of the dangers of it. So, as we began to fight, I watched him closely, memorizing his moves and trying to root out his weaknesses.

As we continue sparring, soldiers gather outside the training room, peering through the windows, their eyes wide in awe and admiration. Is it me they're looking at, or my opponent? I want it to be me. No matter that their opinions mean less to me than dust on the floor. I _need_ them to see that I can best their leader. Darth Malgus's apprentice _will _kneel before me. I am no Sith Lord, but if I topple someone of this status, it will bring me closer to being one.

Two full hours pass like seconds, yet I'm far from spent. My joints creak, my muscles strain, and a hazy cloud strangles my thoughts, but I refuse to acknowledge my staggering exhaustion. I should rest, give the corruption time to recede. Recovering from the disaster in the taxi should be a top priority considering that less than six hours remain before we head out for our first scouting mission. My pride allows no room for such luxuries. The thrumming of the lightsabers at my sides keeps my heart racing. They hum and shake with an insatiable lust for victory, their red glow a reminder of my vow to win this day. This promise gives me no peace and no quarter.

And neither does my formidable opponent.

Cytharat stands on the opposite side of the training room, his back straight and his chin held high. His demeanor hasn't changed from the first time I saw him on holo at Sobrik. His black armor gleams with violet streaks of light, reflecting the pulsing of his own blade. Still proud. Still confident and collected. With such a regal bearing, he could have been the Emperor himself and no one would have questioned it. Only a few stray bits of loose black hair brush his chiseled cheek bones as testament to our fight. Where I tremble with fury and malice, feeding my vigor with them, he gives off no visible ripples of emotion.

My legs tense, forearms and biceps taught and ready. I'm frozen in one of the deadly and vulnerable stances of Juyo form, both sabers crossed before me. I watch him like a hawk, my eyes missing nothing. I'd already underestimated him once and was not about to do so again. My back and shoulder twinge and throb where one of his arcs of lightning caught me by surprise. No broken skin, just a swollen black burn - a warning of what may come to pass should I let down my guard with him again.

"Seraphine," he calls, his deep voice breaking through the wall of hate protecting me. The sound of my name still sends shivers down my back. "Your eyes have turned crimson once more. The skin around them is ringed with black. You've allowed too much of the corruption to manifest." He lowers his dual bladed lightsaber to his side then raises a hand in a graceful gesture. "My Master taught me that, though emotion gives us power, it can also blind us if we allow it to overwhelm our senses."

"That isn't the Sith way," I reply, keeping my voice even, hiding my rapid breathing and masking the trembling in my knees.

"You are strong with the Force. Much stronger than I am," he says.

My ego thrills at those words. "So you concede," I smile.

"No. This session is not about winning or losing, but about bettering ourselves as warriors."

"You fight well," I admit, "but I've dominated each one of our encounters." My eyes wander to the tear in his armor, right at the ribs. A spot of red blooms there, yet he shows no pain, standing as tall and impassive as a stone statue.

"Notice, however," he points out, "the difference between us now. I still have the stamina to fight, but you are exhausted."

"I am no such thing," I say with a sneer.

"One more clash, and you _will_ be spent. You will be left drained and vulnerable. Is such a risk worth taking in true combat?"

I open my mouth to reply, but he stops me.

"Think on it before answering," he urges. "If you fly into battle with reckless abandon, your vision will be limited to what you see before you rather than all the dangers surrounding you. Facing a single opponent, you will undoubtedly triumph. But when facing a hundred, you will fall."

"One hundred or three hundred," I growl, feeling heat rising to my face, "they will all fall before me." Instead of soothing my ire, his advice infuriates me. Who is he to lecture me? Had he been an instructor or a master of the Dark Side, I might have listened. A mere apprentice trying to school me in my trade only serves to intensify my outrage. I'd agreed to this sparring match out of pride, believing my skills to be superior. So far, Cytharat proved me wrong on various levels. Though both of us are injured, neither of us has truly bested the other. A part of me wonders if I should try to listen to what he's telling me. My Vortex refuses to allow it.

_You are superior_, the voice inside me insists. _He tries to throw you off balance. He knows he cannot win._

"Sounds like your _Master_ dabbles in Jedi philosophy," I taunt at him with all the venom I can muster, a smile curving my lips. "Are you certain he wasn't training you to be a warrior of the Light?" My words are cruel and insulting. I have no doubts about that. No true Sith would forgive such an accusation. At last, rage fills his beautiful golden eyes. The blood red skin of his face darkens. As I anticipate, Cytharat cannot resist defending his Master's honor. He lunges at me with renewed vigor and ferocity, wielding his dual bladed lightsaber in sharp twists and round turns. The weapon whirls with the speed of a jet engine, its purple light flashing in a dizzying display.

Though his sabers don't touch me, their searing heat hurts as it passes just millimeters from my skin. If he lands a single blow, I will lose a limb or die. One swipe nearly cuts off my arm. The next almost slices through my hip. He fights to kill now, consumed with the very violence he told me to keep under control. I block each hit and counter every strike with supreme effort. Sparks fly; our weapons screech and roar, responding to our mutual animosity. Rivulets of sweat roll down his face and neck. His enraged aura grates against the passion of my own.

Suddenly, he vanishes. I stumble when the push-back from his weapon disappears, leaving me to regain control of my chaotic momentum. I look around wildly, searching for him, trying to ready myself for his next move. The first time this happened, I was not prepared for it. My aching shoulder reminds me of my mistake.

_Behind you_!

Crouching down, I use the muscles in my legs to spring upwards, flipping my body through the air and twisting my torso around. Just in time. Lightning zaps outward from the shadows. I block the energy with both of my sabers; the blades absorb the raw power, sending powerful tremors through my hands and numbing the tips of my fingers. Landing smoothly on my feet, I don't waste any time leaping towards the source of the light. My senses fan outward, searching the immediate space around me. He's here. I know it. Though his trick succeeded in blinding me physically, he cannot mute my instincts.

Striking out with both sabers in a wide arc, I hit something solid. Cytharat reappears, a look of surprise on his face. Letting out an involuntary outcry of triumph, I bring one of my blades up and slice through the center of his weapon. Purple light flickers and dies as the now useless lightsaber drops to the ground in pieces. His next actions are reflexive. He raises his hands. I know what's coming — I've seen him do this before - but relentless momentum allows me no chance to dodge. Once again lightning arcs towards me, hitting me square in the chest.

I scream.

Pain — agony and torment unlike anything I've ever felt — immobilize me, holding me suspended in the air with invisible threads. My hands try to let go of my weapons, but I hold fast, knowing that this moment will determine which one of us finally wins or loses this match. My Vortex flies to my aid. I reject it with all the sanity I have left. Unfortunately, it is not enough.

_Unleash me! — _it screams. Its hands grab and claw at my resolve, cutting through just enough to give me the strength to break free of Cytharat's power. A wave of power bursts outward, choking the life out of the lightning until it fades away. I drop to the ground with an echoing _thud_. Pieces of my Vortex swirl around me. Cytharat draws a second weapon, a single light saber. He charges at me. I don't bother to defend. When he strikes, a wall of Force stops his blade mere centimeters from my face. His eyes widen seconds before he cries out in pain and reels back. I feel it too - a searing on my forehead where his saber would have hit me - though the sensation reverberates from somewhere outside my body. He slashes again, right across my chest, and roars. Once again, the wall of Force deflects the strike.

Stumbling back, he clutches at the very place he should have wounded me, looking bewildered. The pain throbs in my chest too, but it hardly slows me down. I use it to feed the growing bloodlust in my heart, feeling my thoughts splintering one by one. The Vortex looms closer. Step by step, I approach him. The air around me shifts and swirls. The temperature drops. Then, I see it. At long last, I see what I've been longing for all these hours.

My opponent's fear.

He falls down into a defeated crouch, his face upturned and his luminous eyes looking at me with astonishment. My light sabers slip towards his throat.

_Take his head as a trophy_, a voice whispers seductively. _You can mount it on the walls of the Omen, a testament to your glory and a warning to those who wish to cross you._

Suddenly understanding the immorality and evil of what I'm about to do, I reign in my Vortex and shove its derision and revolting compulsions as far back into the recesses of my mind as I can. The cloak of Force around me hisses and fades. I drop to one knee, breathing hard and fast. Sweat pours down my face; my heart pounds so hard I fear it might explode. Then the pain comes, the debilitating insanity hovering just on the brink of my consciousness. I shut off my sabers and squeeze my eyes shut, trying to keep the backlash of the Vortex under control.

No. No. This can't happen. Not now. No one must see me like this!

Through sheer strength of will, I push myself to my feet, setting my expression into stone. I want to leave, but Cytharat's voice stops me in my tracks.

"In all the years of my training," Cytharat breathes below me, "never have I seen such raw power." He bows his head. "I yield this match. I yield in awe and deference."

_Say something_, my logic urges. _Say something to correct the situation before he realizes that something is wrong._

"Do not say such things, Cytharat." I reach down to help him to his feet. "This session has opened my eyes to my own weaknesses and fallibility." Gesturing to his broken weapon, I frown apologetically. When I turn back to my opponent, his eyes bore into me. Entranced, whatever excuse I wished to give for my lack of caution dies in my throat. As does - to my shock - the aftermath of using the Vortex.

"You are a rare woman, Seraphine." I don't understand why, but warmth floods my cheeks at that statement. I forget for a second why it was that I wanted to run away. He reaches out to touch my cheek. I allow the intimacy, at first, savoring the way his large hand cups the side of my face. Still lost in his eyes and the fire burning there, I stand still, afraid to move, afraid to break this moment. Then realization floods me. He's touching me. _Touching_ me!

I instantly flinch away. "Don't," I rasp.

Cytharat raises a brow. "You're injured," he says. "A cut on your face, and earlier, I did not use enough restraint and hurt your back. I simply wanted to make sure it wouldn't leave a scar." His tone rings out with truth and something else I can't identify.

"I don't care about scars," I tell him. "I have plenty already, as do all Sith."

"True, but it would be a shame to marr your face." He tries to touch me again, but I step ever farther back.

"Physical contact," I say. "I don't…I can't…" The words refuse to come out. Admitting this equals to trust, and that is something I cannot afford. Not now or ever. I sense the soldiers watching outside the windows to the training room, resisting an impulse to scar their mind with enough terror to make them scatter to the four winds.

"I understand," he says. "Forgive my forward actions."

I shake my head to let him know that I'm not troubled by them.

"Perhaps I am still affected by our sparring," he reasons. "My blood burns, and when I see you and remember the power you radiated as you stood victorious above me…"

We look at each other again. I remember that moment as well. The way his golden eyes lit up to the color of the sun; the way his pupils dilated with a sort of reverence. This time, heat pools in my belly rather than my face. I can't name the sensation for I've never experienced it. That troubles me more than it should. It takes time for me to rip my gaze away from his.

I clear my throat. "We should prepare for our mission on the morrow. Though it is partly a ruse, I would still like to understand more about what I'm dealing with."

"Of course," he agrees. "But at the very least, allow me to escort you to the medical bay to ease your exhaustion and to treat our injuries."

"I will not allow anyone to touch me," I decree, my voice thick with promise.

"It's alright. We cannot afford to have medical staff on hand, so most of our equipment is self-service. Because of the importance of our fight here on Balmorra, we have the newest technologies brought over from the capital world. Powerful stims, vaccinations, trauma packs. Even the latest Kolto tanks have become obsolete."

"I'm relieved to hear that," I answer, speaking the truth. Just remembering my horrid experience with Lord Qet's treatment makes me shudder. "What do you use instead of the tanks?"

"Kolto baths."

I give him an incredulous look.

"I agree it sounds odd. But, they are marvelous inventions. They accommodate at least three people at once, fulfill the same purpose as the tanks, and take up much less space." He gestures around the building. "Though you may think that this place isn't crowded, very little of it is allocated to a med bay. Most of what we have here are weapons, war droids, and siege vehicles. Any space we can save is optimal procedure."

"Makes sense." We walk some distance, boarding an elevator to a basement floor. "Why keep it below ground?"

"Bombings risk damaging the building during confrontations. The engineers believe the med bay would be safer in the shelters below. Though the lives of our soldiers aren't our first concern, we do try to keep as many alive as we can. Finding experienced recruits is difficult, especially with the recent rash of conflict that's broken out with the Resistance."

"What about the Treaty?"

Cytharat smiles wryly. "A temporary ruse that falls apart with every passing day. Soon, someone will step too far. Someone will break it. When that happens…"

I nod. No need for an explanation. The Empire and the Republic have been biting at the bit, challenging each other in the hopes that one or the other would give them cause for open warfare. Should that happen, the entire galaxy will fall into chaos once more. I recall the brief conversation Cytharat and I had in his office. "Sith games", we'd said in a jovial manner. Indeed. The task my Master sent me to complete here feels trivial in comparison to the consequences of all out war.

After disembarking the elevator, I look around. Reinforced steel lines the hallways here. It's quiet; this floor seems abandoned, the only sound that of the pulsing air generators. We trek for several minutes past smaller rooms filled with medical beds, monitors, and droids until we reach a large chamber about the size of the one I briefly occupied at Dromund Kaas. Three square baths stand against the right side of the wall, monitors and several Kolto tanks on the left. I'd expected something drab and unpleasant. Instead, white marble covers the structures and the floor. Tiles fitted with circular spots of plastic provide a non-slip surface for bare feet.

"We use the tanks for life-threatening injuries. The suits are over there," Cytharat points to a sterile white locker. "The baths don't require you to wear them. For the next few hours, this facility is at your disposal." He shows me how to operate the privacy curtain around each bath. "I doubt you will need them," he shrugs. "I'll make certain that you are not disturbed." He inclines his head and turns to leave. My hand whips out and grabs at his arm.

"Cytharat, I…"

"Yes?" He stares at me, long and hard, fire suffusing his gaze. A longing fills me. My blood still races through me from our fight, my muscles throbbing and my senses flaring. My heart thuds against my ribs like a ten ton hammer. I want to ask him something, but I don't know what it is I need. My attention strays from his eyes to his lips.

No. Surely I'm not thinking of...

"When you are recovered," his voice lowers again to the husky tone from before. "I will share some of my abilities with you."

"Abilities?" I inwardly cringe at how breathless I sound.

"How to hide from your enemies, how to strike from the shadows, and how to empower your blades with Force." He wants to leave now, yet he stays — unmoving, hesitant. He means what he says, but he's eliminated certain words he believes might push me away from him. I feel his indecision, feel him wavering. Then -

"When you are ready, perhaps I will be the one to show you how to soothe the passion of battle from your body. Emotions feed and nurture our power, but without an outlet for them, they can drive any Sith to madness."

"I've found meditation to be an excellent outlet," I say. His smile doesn't reach his ears.

"We are not in the Academy anymore, Seraphine. We are Sith, and Sith never deny themselves anything they _desire_." And just like that, he vanishes into thin air. I sense his presence leave, can swear that I see a shadow slither from the room. I want to call out, to stop him. Yet I have no words to describe the hurricane in my chest and no knowledge of what it is that I would ask.

.

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* * *

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.

.

I should have known that even a man with as much authority as Cytharat couldn't keep a meddling rodent like my Twi'lek slave under constant watch. Nor was it his job to do so. That he'd volunteered to help at all was a sign of good will rather than a promise. I'd ordered Quinn to stay in his quarters then meet me on the main floor of the Workshop at a certain time tomorrow. Had he relayed those instructions to the Twi'lek girl? Would it have mattered? She'd proved more than once that she had no respect for hierarchy or authority.

As soon as she enters the med bay, I know that she's either chosen to deliberately ignore my command or that Quinn had failed in impressing its importance upon her. Her fidgety and energetic aura makes the hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My teeth grit together. Her presence exists only as a ripple in the Force, but I swear I could smell something rotten with her arrival. I wrinkle my nose and stay still, hoping she's just curious and would soon leave. Instead, she steps right over to my Kolto bath and toys with the buttons that operate the privacy curtain.

Even as it _whizzes_ back and away to reveal me, I force myself to stay calm and still, giving no sign of my discomfort. The slave yelps and jumps back, her violet eyes huge in her small face. I'd chosen to abstain from wearing the Kolto suit, as it made me feel confined and sticky. So now, I sit before the Twi'lek naked, glaring at her with all the menace of a Rakghoul on a bad day.

"My Lord!" she gasps. "I-I'm sorry. Didn't know anyone was in here."

"You were ordered to remain in your quarters until tomorrow."

"Yeah, sorry. I just…well, I was so _bored_."

"And that excuses your insubordination?"

She stays silent, her eyes falling to the floor. For the past hour, the hot water of the bath served to ease the ache and tension in my muscles, inviting a relaxation I hadn't experienced in months. My sabers still lie within reach, but the warmth has washed away my typical paranoia and frustration with the world. I sigh and wave my hand, shifting in the bath until my back faces the Twi'lek.

"Get out," I say.

No response.

"Did I not speak loudly enough? I said get out." Irritation prickles at me, but I'm too relaxed to care. Instead a smile tugs at the corner of my lips. "Unless, of course, you want me to punish you severely for your intrusion."

"Your back," Vette murmurs.

"What about it?" I snap irritably.

"So many scars…How horrible..."

I'd forgotten about those. Suddenly unwilling for her to ogle them, I sink deeper into the water. My loose hair floats around me, red as blood.

"Are all those from the Academy?"

"No."

"Do they still hurt?"

"No."

"What happened…? When I was a slave, my owners used to beat me, but…"

"If you ask one more question, I _will _kill you, orders or no orders."

"Sorry," she says, her tone genuinely concerned and sad. Knowing she can't see my face, I allow myself to grimace.

"If you leave now, I'll forgive your intrusion."

"Not about that, My Lord."

"Then about _what_?" I ask in a menacing tone of voice.

"About what happened to you. And your scars. I'm sorry."

An image flashes in my mind.

A girl crying. An Overseer laughing. The sound of a flashing electric whip smacking wetly against torn flesh. The darkness of the room. The girl's screams for help. And, lastly, the knowledge that nobody - ever - would come to her aid.

Not even the hot water soothes my anger any longer. The Kolto begins to boil in the bath, bubbles breaking the viscous surface and bursting with wet hot splashes. I whirl around, my wet hair flying around me. Vette steps back then coughs as Force mercilessly wraps around her throat. Her neck snaps back, feet lifting off the ground and kicking in place. I dig my fingernails into the marble; some of them splinter and crack. The pain is nothing — truly _nothing_ — compared to seeing that memory again and experiencing the shame of it.

"If you want to live, Twi'lek, _never_ offer me your pity again," I grind out. She nods with small bumps of her head, her blue face turning an unhealthy shade of green. I let her loose, watching with unfeeling eyes as she crashes to the floor. She gasps and struggles for air, and the moment she regains her footing, she runs out the door, shutting the lock behind her. As soon as I can no longer sense her presence, I relax. No part of me wants to spare the slave another thought. I breathe in slow succession, trying to calm my churning hostility. So, she saw my scars. What of it? All the Sith I've met have scars, missing limbs, and deformities. The life we lead allows no room for softness or mistakes.

I sink back into the water, pulling my unleashed hate and resentment back inside me. The memory of the crying girl refuses to leave, haunting me like a dauntless specter. Her screams come closer now. The bone-chilling cold in the room feels real. I recall the scenery outside the window, the ugliness of Ziost's stormy climate. Deeper and deeper, I let my body submerge into the Kolto, closing my eyes as my head disappears beneath the surface. What would happen if I drowned here? What would happen if I died tomorrow? Or the next day? Or the next? What was the purpose of fighting each day, of scrambling to live in a world hell-bent on dealing out death?

_You want power_.

Yes, I do.

_You want to surpass those who believe themselves above you._

I do.

_You want to commune with the Dark Side until you reach the height of ultimate power. _

But is the Dark Side really all there is?

_Do you doubt it? Do you dare question it?_

What of the Light? We've been taught that it is worthless and weak.

_What is the Light, if not a series of lies and deceptions? _

Then why is the Dark so different from it?

_In the Darkness, there is no restraint. There are no walls, no boundaries. Passion gives you strength. Strength gives you power, and only power can free you. _

Freedom. What does that mean?

_It means having no Master. It means leaving your armor on the floor as you sleep. It means taking anything and everything that you want. _

What I want…

I think of Cytharat. I think of the moment when I looked at his lips, when I felt the power in the corded arm beneath my hand. I feel his palm on my cheek, hear his low deep voice say my name. What did I want him to do then? What did I expect? Suddenly, the vision changes. I remember the blue-eyed Imperial in his cage. I recall the warmth of his hand and later the spicy scent of his aftershave as he leaned over me for my medical scan. My mind replays with shocking clarity the way his lips looked when they shaped my name. The memory of the hatred - the animosity and malcontent - in his eyes sets my blood aflame. My eyes snap open. I pull myself up and out of the Kolto bath. Getting dressed takes me no time at all. A servant had taken care to wash and dry my clothes from earlier while I was bathing.

With that tangy scent still present in my nostrils, I tuck my lightsabers into my belt and march towards the elevator and the soldier's quarters, the searing memory of Quinn's blue eyes leading the way.


End file.
